


Falling

by sahiya



Series: Falling for You: The White Collar Hockey/Figure Skating AU [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Falling In Love, Ice Skating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Caffrey is a professional figure skater struggling to land a quad. Peter Burke is a professional hockey player struggling to come back from an injury in time for the Olympics. Neither of them is looking to fall in love. Fortunately for them, their rink manager can't read a schedule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel/gifts).



> So many people helped with the making of this fic! Thanks to my roommate for getting me into hockey and hockey picking the story. Thanks to my parents for years of figure skating lessons and putting up with my figure skating obsession. Thanks to angelita26 for encouraging me to write the fic (and indeed, I think this is serving as your fic for a charity auction, though which one I'm now forgetting), and the awesome peeps of the White Collar Writers Union who cheerleaded me along the way. Thanks to Fuzzyboo for reading as I went and letting me bounce ideas off of her. Thanks to via_ostiense for doing the final read through and beta. And, last but certainly not least, thanks to Kanarek13 for the gorgeous piece of art below.
> 
> This fic is not RPF, although it does mention certain RL events, such as the lockout in the 2012-2013 NHL season. But it exists in an alternate universe where the Buffalo Sabres are not the worst team in the NHL, and where Salzburg won its bid for the 2014 Winter Olympics, because after all the scandals around Russia's anti-gay laws, the idea of setting a gay romance at the Sochi Olympics made me feel vaguely queasy. We don't quite get to the Olympics in this story, but we will in the next (which exists but is being a little recalcitrant).
> 
>  

Five in the morning had always been Peter’s favorite time at the rink. No one around except the person responsible for unlocking the doors, and a wide, unblemished expanse of ice. It’d been years now since he’d had an early morning skate, but one of the few pleasures of his current situation was solo morning practices. 

Or at least, it was supposed to be. 

“Caffrey!” a woman’s voice shouted over the music, which Peter thought he recognized as Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” “Extend that leg for the full measure, or I will come out there and do it for you.”

Peter heaved a sigh. _Figure skaters._ And not just any figure skater either, it seemed, but Neal Caffrey. Peter didn’t follow figure skating if he could help it, but he’d heard more than he cared to recently about Buffalo’s resident star, who was heading to the Olympics in Salzburg in just a few weeks' time.

Peter pushed through the doors to the rink and made his way across the padded floor in his skates. Out on the ice, a lone figure in black was spinning. “Head up!” the woman’s voice called. The music changed and Neal pushed off into a series of footwork so quick that even Peter had to raise his eyebrows. It ended at the far end of the rink and Caffrey pulled round, skates gliding over each other as he built momentum for a jump. 

Peter couldn’t have told a salchow from a lutz if his life depended on it, but even he knew Caffrey was supposed to land on his feet, not his ass. His admittedly very fine ass, Peter couldn’t help but notice.

The music kept going, but Caffrey sat on the ice, looking stunned. After a second the music shut off, and the woman who’d been shouting at him, a slim redhead with impeccable posture, stepped onto the ice in a pair of bright, white skates. She glided over to Caffrey and stopped in front of him, spraying him lightly with ice. “Anything bruised?” Peter heard her ask. 

“Only my pride,” Neal said with a grimace, and accepted her hand up. “Start again?”

Peter saw his opening. “Excuse me,” he called, and stepped onto the ice. “Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but it seems there was a scheduling conflict. I was supposed to have the ice from five to eight this morning.”

Caffrey looked merely surprised, but the woman immediately narrowed her eyes and skated over. “Is that so,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you are?”

“Peter Burke,” Peter said, holding out his hand for her to shake. She frowned but accepted it. “I’m sorry for the confusion. I cleared it with the rink manager.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Harry’s an idiot who can’t read a schedule. This is our ice from five to seven every morning. Neal’s coach will be here in half an hour. You’re just going to have to wait.”

“Sara, play nice,” Caffrey admonished, coming to a stop beside her. “Neal Caffrey,” he said, extending his own hand. “This is my charming choreographer, Sara Ellis. Don’t worry, her bark is worse than her bite.” Ellis made an outraged noise, which Caffrey ignored. “Nice to finally meet you, Peter. I’ve heard all the legends.”

“Thanks, I think,” Peter said. “Look, I don’t mean to disrupt your morning practice, I was just hoping to get some time on the ice in this morning.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Caffrey said. “It’s a big rink, after all. Mind sharing it with me?”

“Not at all,” Peter said, even as Ellis hissed, _Neal_. “I’m just going to be running some drills. Let me know if you want to do your, uh -”

“Program,” Caffrey supplied. 

“Yeah, that. Let me know if you want to do it again, I can clear off.”

“Thanks,” Caffrey said, sounding surprised. “I will.” 

Ellis looked moderately mollified at that, though she still eyed Peter with disfavor as she and Caffrey skated off. Peter went to the far side of the rink and wrestled the hockey net out of storage and onto the ice. He did a few laps around his half of the ice, ignoring the start and stop of Caffrey’s music and Ellis’s voice calling out directions. His leg was stiff from the cold, but once he got his blood flowing it loosened up. It still wasn’t up to its normal strength, but at least it was letting him skate. Right now, that was all that mattered. 

Well, he admitted, maybe not _all_ that mattered, not with the Olympics less than a month away. But he couldn’t afford to let himself think too much about what was at stake.

It was easier to forget while he was running drills, more or less the same drills he’d been running since he was seven, playing on a frozen pond behind his grandparents’ house. His body knew how to do this, even if it couldn’t do it as well as it normally did, and it was easy to let muscle memory take over. _Thwap. Thwap. Thwap._ One puck after another, straight into the corner of the net. If only it were always so easy. 

“Hey, you! Mouthguard!”

Peter jerked up at the last second and his shot went wide, missing the net entirely and slamming into the boards. He turned. “ _Excuse_ me?” 

The insult seemed to have come from a funny-looking little guy bundled up in a pea coat, scarf, hat, and gloves, who was glaring at him from the edge of the rink. “You heard me,” the guy said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Caffrey rolled his eyes. “Peter, this is my coach, Mozzie. Mozzie, this is Peter Burke. I apologize in advance,” he added to Peter under his breath. 

Mozzie scowled as he looked Peter up and down. “Listen, buddy, I don’t know who you think you are, but while you’re knocking things into a net with a stick at that end of the ice, there is _art_ happening at this end, and you’d better not get in our way. Make no mistake,” he added, reaching out to poke Peter in the chest. “You might be bigger and stronger, but brute strength has nothing on grace and elegance. Nothing!”

Peter looked down at Mozzie’s finger, still poking him in the chest, and blinked. “I have no idea what’s happening right now.”

“Welcome to my life,” Caffrey sighed. “Come on, Moz,” he said, pushing Mozzie’s hand down. “Peter already said he’d clear off to let me run my programs if I asked.”

“Oh,” Moz said, looking taken aback. “Well, good, because I want to see your free. Did you land the quad this morning?”

“More or less,” Caffrey muttered, not looking at his coach. 

“Mostly less,” Ellis said helpfully from her seat in the bleachers. 

“Yes, _thank_ you, Sara,” Caffrey said.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us, then,” Mozzie said. “You,” he added, turning to Peter, “Mouthguard. Move that thing off the ice before Neal kills himself on it.” He gestured toward the net, then turned away. 

_Mouthguard._ Peter gritted his teeth, but he skated over to move the net off the ice and collected the stray pucks as well, leaving them in a pile inside the net. Then he left the ice and circled back toward Ellis, who was watching Caffrey and Mozzie out on the ice. He didn’t think she’d appreciate his company, so he found a spot a few seats down in the bleachers and settled in to watch. But after a minute or two she got up and moved down to sit beside him. 

“Sorry about earlier,” she said, seating herself beside him. Out on the ice, Mozzie was skating a circle backwards around Caffrey and gesturing wildly. “I’m sure you understand how it is in an Olympics year, especially with so little time left.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Peter said. “Besides, this is Caffrey’s home rink. I’m just visiting.” The Sabres’ own rink was across town, but Peter had wanted to get some practice in without being scrutinized. “He looks like he’s doing well,” he ventured after a second or two, tentatively. Ellis glanced at him, and Peter gave a sheepish shrug. “Not that I have any way of actually knowing.”

Ellis smiled. “He’s doing all right,” she said judiciously. “He won at Nationals even though he bailed on his quad in both programs. So we’ll see. There’s no room for that at this level. He was lucky none of his competitors seemed to be able to stay on their feet.”

“The quad. Is that the one he fell on earlier?” Peter asked. 

“Yes,” Ellis said, frowning a little. “His Achilles’ heel. He’s never been a very strong jumper.”

“Then how -” Peter started, but Ellis waved him quiet as Mozzie skated off the ice. Peter shut up as Neal took his place at the center of the ice, rolling his shoulders, loosening himself up.

After seeing part of Caffrey’s program that morning, Peter expected more classical music. But to his surprise, it was anything but. It was something dramatic, with a surprisingly strong beat, and Peter let himself get lost in admiring the lines of Neal’s body as he struck out from the center of the ice, the easy grace and strength of his body. Peter was strong and he was damn good at what he did, but he couldn’t make his body move exactly the way he wanted it to the way Caffrey could. And it didn’t help that the man was possibly the most gorgeous person Peter had ever met in real life.

For all that Ellis claimed Caffrey wasn’t a strong jumper, he looked strong enough to Peter. He moved through a series of triples and combinations with apparent ease. Peter only knew that the quad was coming by the way that Ellis palpably tensed up beside him and started muttering, “Come on, Neal, _come on_ ,” under her breath. The music built; Neal turned and jumped. 

He landed it cleanly, but Ellis swore. “What?” Peter said. “He landed it.”

“He landed a triple,” Ellis said. “Just like at Nationals. Excuse me.” She got up and made her way down the bleachers to talk to a scowling Mozzie. 

The music ended, and Neal came to a stop at the center of the ice. His shoulders slumped, and he raked a hand through his hair. “Don’t say it!” he called across the ice to Ellis and Mozzie. “Just don’t say it.” He skated off in the other direction, legs pumping hard. 

Peter grimaced in sympathy. He climbed down from the bleachers in time to hear Ellis say, “He’s frustrated, Moz. Everyone has an off day sometimes. We’ll come back this evening and try again.”

“He needs to have fewer ‘off days,’” Moz said, making air quotes with his fingers. “He hasn’t landed a quad since before Nationals. You can’t tell me that doesn’t worry you.”

“Of course it worries me,” Ellis said. “But rubbing his nose in it isn’t going to help. And no amount of _practice_ is going to help, either, if he’s so far inside his own head he can’t see the light of day.”

Mozzie shook his head. “I think it’s time for us to start thinking about pulling it from the program.”

“He won’t like it.”

“I don’t care. If he skates a perfect program, and you know he can, he doesn’t need a quad to win.” 

“That isn’t the point,” Ellis said. “He wants -”

“I know what he wants,” Mozzie snapped, throwing his hands up. He snapped his blade guards onto his skates and stomped out, pushing through the doors with what Peter thought was an unnecessary amount of drama. 

Ellis leaned against the entrance to the ice and sighed as she watched Caffrey skating in increasingly sloppy, fast circles around the perimeter. Peter thought about saying something to her, but instead he stepped out on the ice and yelled, “Hey, Caffrey!”

Caffrey came to an abrupt stop at the far end of the rink. “What?” 

Peter skated over. “Want to blow off some steam?” 

Caffrey looked startled but recovered quickly. “Hell yes.”

“Come with me,” Peter said, and pushed off. He wrestled the net back onto the ice and shepherded the pile of pucks over to where Caffrey was standing, watching him curiously. “Nothing better than hockey for blowing off some steam. You ever held a stick before?”

“No,” Caffrey admitted. 

“Okay,” Peter said, and showed him how, adjusting Caffrey’s grip until it was passable. He pushed most of the pucks off to one side, leaving one in place. “Now back up, skate as fast you can, and use your momentum to whack that puck into the net.”

“You going to try and stop me?” Caffrey asked. 

Peter managed not to laugh. “No.”

Caffrey frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to hurt you. Come on. Show me what you got.”

Caffrey looked like he was going to protest, but then he just shrugged. He took the stick and skated about halfway up the rink. Peter backed up and glanced over to see Ellis watching them with a faint smile on her face. Caffrey eyed the net, then pushed off, skating more aggressively than Peter would’ve given him credit for. He pulled the stick back and swung it, hitting the puck but sending it wide, slamming into the boards with an almighty _thunk_. 

“Good!” Peter called. “Again!”

Caffrey circled around, stick in hand and a determined look on his face. He came in faster, and his swing had better follow through; the puck still missed the net but it was closer. “Better!” Peter called as Caffrey circled around for another try. After that he shut his mouth, letting Caffrey get into the flow of it. The third puck slammed into the boards, but the fourth, fifth, and sixth went straight into the back left corner. When he was out of pucks, Caffrey dropped the stick on the ice and turned. Peter watched, holding his breath a little as Caffrey gained speed and momentum with each stroke, until he launched himself into the air. 

Peter still couldn’t tell a triple from a quad, but the grin on Caffrey’s face when he landed the jump cleanly and the applause coming from Ellis’s corner of the rink told him everything he needed to know. Peter gave a fist pump and a whoop and skated over to high five Caffrey. 

Caffrey was breathing hard and grinning widely. “Thanks,” he said to Peter. “I needed that.”

Peter shrugged. “No problem.”

“Think I’ll quit while I’m ahead,” Caffrey said. “Especially since Moz is going to kick my ass this afternoon.”

“If you’re sure,” Peter said, just as he caught sight of Diana striding through the doors from the locker room. Peter waved to her, and she waved back as she stepped onto the ice. 

“Hey boss,” she said to Peter, socking him lightly in the arm in greeting. “Wasn’t expecting a party.”

“Neal this is Diana Barrigan,” Peter said, “an old friend of mine. Diana, this is -”

“Neal Caffrey,” Diana finished with a grin. “Yeah, I know, boss. Nice to meet you,” she added to him. “My girlfriend’s a big fan. And that must make you Sara Ellis,” she added, reaching over to shake Sara’s hand. 

“Got it in one,” Ellis said, looking pleased. 

“Are we sharing the ice?” Diana asked, glancing at Peter. 

“We were,” Caffrey said, “but I’m just finishing up. It’s all yours.”

“Excellent,” Diana said, looking slightly evil. “I want as much as space as possible for putting this one through his paces.” She jerked her thumb toward Peter.

“For throwing me into the boards, you mean,” Peter said dryly. 

Diana grinned. “That’s what I said. Give me three minutes to warm up.” She stripped the blade guards off her skates, then shot off across the ice. 

Caffrey shook his head, watching her. “Have fun,” he told Peter dryly. 

“We always do,” Peter replied. “Thanks for being so flexible this morning. I’ll speak to Harry before I leave and work something out so I don’t interfere with your practice again. I’m only going to be here for another couple weeks, anyway.”

Caffrey shrugged. “I thought this worked out okay. As long as you don’t mind having to vacate when I need to run a program, I don’t mind sharing.”

Peter didn’t miss the look Ellis gave Caffrey, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. “Are you sure?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. Believe me, ice time is at a premium right now. I’m not sure Harry would have much else to give you.”

Peter nodded. “Okay, then. Thanks.”

“Boss!” Diana yelled from across the ice. “Come on, we’re burning daylight!”

“Duty calls,” Peter said, shaking his head. “See you tomorrow morning, Caffrey.”

“Hey, call me Neal, all right? I get flashbacks to this coach I had as a kid when people other than Sara call me ‘Caffrey.’”

“Neal,” Peter said with a grin. “See you.”

“See you,” Caffrey - _Neal_ \- said, returning his smile. 

Peter skated over to Diana just in time to see her slam a puck into the net with the unerring precision that made her the top scorer in the CWHL. “Nice,” he said. 

“Thanks,” she said, and used her stick to slide a puck over to him. “So, how’d you end up sharing ice with Neal Caffrey?”

“Scheduling mix-up,” Peter said, and rushed her, faking left then dodging right to try and get the puck past her and into the net. She blocked him easily, tripped him with her stick, and sent the puck sailing off across the ice. 

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said, skating around him in circles while he picked himself up off the ice. “Get your head in the game.”

“My head is in the game,” Peter grunted.

“Oh, really?” Diana said with a smile. “You sure it isn’t in the locker room with America’s hottest figure skater?”

Peter gave her a look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Diana said, then shot off to the right. Peter rushed to meet her, and she dodged to the left; he blocked her and she jammed her elbow into his solar plexus, ricocheted off of him and slammed the puck into the net. 

“ _Ow_ ,” Peter said, half-doubled over. “Jesus, Di. You trying to get sent to the penalty box?”

“I’m trying to get you to stop pulling your punches,” Diana shot back. “Come on, Peter. Or maybe everyone’s right and all this time off has made you soft. Maybe you _shouldn’t_ be going to the Olympics.”

This time, when Peter rushed her, he put his full weight into it. He slammed past her and knocked the puck straight into the net. He went to retrieve it and turned around just in time for her to run into him at full speed or damn close to it. She body-checked him into the boards and stole the puck, sending it back toward the opposite end of the rink. 

“That’s better,” she said, as he went to get another puck from his stash. “How was your doctor’s appointment yesterday?”

Peter sighed. “Still not cleared for contact.” For practicing with the team, yes. But he couldn’t play in an actual game until the doctors said he was ready for the sort of full-body contact that men’s hockey was known for. 

Diana grimaced. “Damn, that sucks. When do you see him again?”

“Couple of weeks,” Peter said. “The Thursday before we leave for Salzburg.”

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?”

Peter shrugged. “I wanted to give myself as much time as possible to get where he wants me to be.” He didn’t add that he was worried now that he _wouldn’t_ be cleared for contact in time. He’d known it would be hard, coming back from a broken leg in time for the Olympics, and if it’d happened even just a few weeks further into the season, he probably couldn’t have. But he’d worked his ass off getting back into shape, and to be told now that he wasn’t ready to start playing again had been a blow. 

He didn’t say any of that, but Diana knew him too well. “Boss,” she said after a moment. 

“Don’t, Di,” he said, cutting her off. “You’re not my shrink. Are we going to talk or are we going to skate?”

“I was planning to do both. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”

“Thank you,” Peter said, and sent her the puck. 

“Now. Neal Caffrey.” Peter groaned, but Diana ignored him. “I’d say he was your type, but since I’ve never seen you express attraction to another human being, I don’t actually know what your type is.”

He _was_ Peter’s type, but he refused to give Diana the satisfaction of confirming that. “It doesn’t matter,” he said instead, circling around and rubbing a hand idly over his chest. That was going to bruise. He should’ve known better and worn full gear for this. One-on-one with Diana was worse than going up against half the Sabres. “The fact that he’s a figure skater doesn’t mean he’s gay.”

Diana laughed. “No, the fact that he’s _gay_ means he’s gay.” 

He passed her the puck. “Really?” 

“Really. And out and proud about it, too,” she added.

“How nice for him,” Peter said. “I would be, too, if I were a figure skater instead of a professional hockey player.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Diana said. Then she rushed him with the puck, and for the next few minutes Peter didn’t have breath enough to say anything or even think anything that wasn’t about keeping the puck from Diana and preventing her from body-checking him into the boards and bruising his pride or his solar plexus. _Again._

***

With less than three weeks to go before the Olympics, there was only one thing Neal needed to do, and that was to focus on going out on the ice every day and upping his ante from what he’d been able to do at Nationals. The quad was his Achilles’ heel and the golden ring all in one, and he needed to be pushing himself to land it in every practice session. 

What he really didn’t need, with less three weeks to go before the Olympics, was a massive crush. And yet, after several days of sharing ice with Peter Burke, that was what Neal Caffrey had. He wasn’t totally sure what it was about Peter that did it for him. Peter was attractive, definitely, even if Neal had never really seen the point of hockey. Too much brute force, too little elegance. But some reason, when he watched Peter play, it did look elegant. He could’ve been a much bigger ass about having to share the rink, too, but he’d been nothing but considerate. Still, none of that really accounted for the butterfly feeling Neal got in his stomach whenever he watched Peter skate, caught Peter watching him skate, met Peter’s eye, or, basically, interacted with Peter Burke _in any way_.

The windows in the doors that led from the locker room into the rink were small and dirty, but Neal could just barely make out Diana Barrigan throwing Peter around at the far end. He watched as Peter shoved his shoulder into Barrigan, sending her sprawling across the ice and leaving him free and clear to take his shot. He held his stick up over his head in triumph and skated a victory lap. Neal smiled. 

“So, Peter Burke,” Sara’s voice said from behind him. Neal glanced over his shoulder, and she came to stand beside him. “Defenseman and captain for the Buffalo Sabres. He’s won the Norris Trophy twice - that’s the award for the best defenseman in the NHL - and last year when the Sabres won the Stanley Cup, he got the Mark Messier Leadership Award. He also, incidentally, has a degree in applied mathematics from Boston College, where he led their team to victory in the NCAA championship three out of four years.”

“How do you know all this?” Neal asked, turning to frown at her. 

“His Wikipedia page,” Sara said, holding up her iPhone. She pulled an apple out of her bag. “Have you eaten yet? No, of course you haven’t. Eat this.”

Neal rolled his eyes but took the apple from her. “What else does it say?” he asked, curious despite himself. 

She scrolled further down with her thumb. “He broke his leg in the Sabres’ second game of the season, and he’s been on the injured reserve list for the last four months. But apparently he’s spent most of that time doing volunteer work with youth hockey teams in the Buffalo area. Look.” She held the phone out and Neal took it from her. There was a photo of Peter, leaning on one crutch and gesturing with the other in front of a bunch of kids, mixed boys and girls, in hockey gear. A smiling, dark-haired woman stood off to the side. 

“Adorable,” Neal said, handing it back. “I assume the woman with him is his supportive and beautiful wife.”

“No.”

“Girlfriend, then.”

“Not even close,” Sara said, smirking. “That’s Elizabeth Mitchell. She runs PR and community outreach for the Sabres. I found a bunch of rumors linking them romantically, but nothing solid. It seems they’re just photographed together a lot because he’s so active. The reputable sites don’t have anything to say at all about Peter Burke’s private life. Seriously, Neal, you disappoint me,” she added, slipping her phone back into her handbag. “Haven’t you been cyberstalking him?”

Neal shrugged. He’d been tempted, but that way lay madness. Peter was just a guy he was sharing ice with for a while, nothing more. “Just because he keeps his private life private, that doesn’t mean anything,” Neal said, glancing back to the window in time to see Barrigan body-check Peter right into the boards. 

“It’s professional hockey, Neal. It’s a very different world from figure skating. I’m just saying,” Sara said, when Neal shook his head at her. “I haven’t seen someone make you smile like Peter Burke has in a long time.”

She was right, and they both knew it. “I don’t need a distraction right now,” Neal muttered. He’d landed one quad that morning, by the skin of his teeth, and fallen on four others. That wasn’t nearly good enough and he knew it. 

“Actually, I think a distraction is _exactly_ what you need right now,” Sara said. “Don’t tell Moz I said that, though.”

Neal smiled, imagining Moz’s probable reaction. The truth, though, was that Sara knew what made him tick, especially on the ice, better than anyone. “Maybe you’re right."

“I’m always right about you,” Sara said, and slid her arm around his waist, leaning into him. “When will you learn that? Now,” she added briskly, suddenly all business. “Moz wants you back at four, which means you need to be on the ice and warming up at three-thirty. You have it until six. I’m going to go home and do some work, maybe catch a nap before coming back. I suggest you do the same.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Neal said. He reached out and caught her hand as she started to turn away. “Hey. Come early and warm-up with me? For old time’s sake.”

She sighed. “Fine. But you’re not using me to avoid the quad.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Neal said, and watched her go before turning back to the window. 

Peter and Barrigan were leaving the ice together. Neal quickly ducked away from the doors and headed for the locker room’s other exit, which led out into the lobby. The place was starting to get busy; there was a mid-morning adult skate club, whose members were just beginning to arrive. Neal thought about leaving, just as he had every other morning after watching Peter skate, but Sara had a point. Maybe he was too focused on skating - on the goddamn _quad_. Maybe what he needed was to think about something else for a while.

He didn’t let himself over think it. He seated himself on a bench near the locker room doors and nibbled at his apple until Peter and Barrigan came out together. They were both wearing street clothes. It was the first time Neal had seen Peter in anything other than track pants and a sweatshirt, and even though the jeans weren’t particularly well-fitted, Neal still felt his simmering attraction for the man ratchet up several notches. “Hey,” Neal said, standing. 

“Hey,” Peter said, looking surprised. “What are you still doing here?”

“I do yoga for an hour after practice,” Neal lied easily. He _should_ do yoga for an hour after practice, that was true, but more days than not he just didn’t have the patience for it. He’d make up for it with extra stretching that afternoon. “I was wondering if you wanted to get breakfast. There’s a café down the street that does a mean egg white omelette.”

“That’s not a phrase I hear all that often,” Peter said with a smile. “Sure. Diana, do you -”

“Nah, I’m good,” Barrigan said with a wide grin in Neal’s direction that he found simultaneously unnerving and encouraging. “I’ll see you later, boss.” 

Outside, the day was sunny but cold, much colder than it had been in the rink. It was only a short walk to the café, but Neal pulled his gloves on, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “So,” he said as they carefully navigated the icy steps to the sidewalk, “why does Diana call you ‘boss’?”

Peter laughed. “In high school, I used to make extra money working as a skate guard at the old rink, the one they tore down a few years ago when this one opened. After a couple years, they promoted me to supervisor. Diana was one of the kids I supervised. She started calling me ‘boss’ then and never stopped.”

“And now she plays professional hockey?”

“For the Hamilton Wings, yeah. And she’ll be going to Salzburg, too.” Peter shrugged. “She’d say I taught her everything she knows, but the truth is that she’s better than I am in a lot of ways. It’s a huge injustice that women’s hockey is so ignored.”

“I don’t know much about hockey, but it looked like she was giving you a hard time out there,” Neal said. Peter glanced at him. “I might’ve watched you a bit from the locker room,” he admitted. Every day for almost a week now, but Peter didn’t need to know that. 

Peter shrugged. “I broke my leg in the second game of the season. She wants me back at my fighting weight for the Olympics, so she’s been driving down from Hamilton every day she doesn’t have a game to knock me around the rink. There’s no way I’d be ready to go if it weren’t for her.”

Neal nodded. “I feel the same way about Sara. And Moz,” he added, “but I’m pretty sure Moz and I would’ve killed each other years ago if it weren’t for Sara. This is it,” he added, and pushed open to the door to the café. He held it for Peter. Lena, the owner, waved at him, gesturing for them to sit anywhere. Neal snagged a table by the window and didn’t bother opening the menu. He already knew what he’d be having. “You want coffee?”

“Please,” Peter said. Neal held up two fingers and Lena nodded, heading over to the pot in the corner.

“So you all go way back then?” Peter said as he glanced over the menu. 

“Yeah,” Neal said. “Moz’s been my coach for about eight years now, and Sara - well, I take it you don’t follow figure skating much?”

“Probably about as much as you follow hockey,” Peter said with a smile. 

“Touché. I skated pairs for years. Sara was my partner.”

“Oh,” Peter said, sitting back. “What happened?”

“Knee injury,” Neal said, glancing away. “Six years ago. We’d come in third at Nationals and secured a spot at Worlds, but she fell during practice. She tore a ligament and did a lot of other damage. The doctors said she couldn’t keep skating without risking a lot of long-term problems, so she decided to retire.” 

After six years, Neal was pretty good at telling that story. His rendition left out a lot, of course: weeks and months of pain on Sara’s part, the bitter disappointment of being told the multiple surgeries had been for naught, the guilt Neal had spent years trying to put away, because he knew Sara didn’t want him to blame himself. It was hard not to, though. It was a throw she had fallen on, and he never could remember afterward if he’d made some small mistake that might’ve caused it. She insisted he hadn’t, but there was no way for either of them to really know. 

Neal left all that out, but there was something in the way Peter looked at him that made him think he knew. He was glad when Lena arrived them with their coffee and water. “The usual, please,” Neal said, handing over the menu. 

“Got it. One Neal Caffrey Special, coming up,” she said with a smile. “And for you, Mr. Burke?”

If Peter was surprised she knew who he was, he didn’t let on. “The Denver omelette, please. With extra wheat toast and a side of ham.”

“They can go light on the grease,” Neal said, “if that’s something you’re worried about.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Peter said. 

“You want all your egg yolks?” Lena asked, with a teasing smile in Neal’s direction. 

“Yup,” Peter said. “In fact, you can give me Neal’s.” Lena laughed, collected Peter’s menu, and left. 

Neal half-hoped Peter would change the subject, but he didn’t. “So,” he said, looking at Neal. “That must’ve been rough, for you and Sara both.”

Neal looked down, stirring Sweet-n-Low into his coffee. “Sara’s always been tough as nails. When they told her she couldn’t skate anymore, she picked herself up a lot faster than I did. I kept trying to get her to go to specialists, and she just said, ‘Why, so I can have a stellar career playing Ariel with Disney On Ice?’” Peter smiled, and Neal shrugged. “She’d been choreographing stuff for us for years - fun stuff, exhibition pieces and so on - and she’d always loved it. So she decided she’d do that."

"And you didn't want to try again with someone else?"

Neal grimaced. "I tried, but it never felt right. So I decided to go solo. A lot of people said I was an idiot - it’s almost never done, you know. Pairs is all about synchronicity, and you don’t have to do the same level of jumps that solo male skaters have to do. I’d never landed a triple axel, even in practice, much less a quad. I never thought I’d have to.”

“And yet here you are,” Peter said. “Going to the Olympics.”

“Here I am,” Neal said, and knew he couldn’t quite hide the note of wistfulness in his voice. “There are still a lot of people who think I shouldn’t be going - my triple axel is finally consistent, but I only land my quad about thirty percent of the time. I didn’t do it at all at Nationals.” 

Peter sighed. “I know what it’s like,” he said, dumping sugar - _real_ sugar, Neal saw with some envy - into his own coffee, “for people to be saying you shouldn’t be going. I haven’t played hockey - real hockey, with full contact - since early October, and there are a lot of people saying that I’m not going to be up to snuff by the Olympics.”

“Are you?” Neal asked. 

Peter looked down at his plate. “Not yet. The team doc still hasn’t cleared me for contact. But I’ll get there.”

He sounded less than certain, but he also didn’t look like he wanted to talk about it. Neal decided he didn’t know Peter well enough to push, and he was relieved when Lena brought their food. Peter’s plate held an omelette brimming with cheese, ham, peppers and onions, twice as much toast as Neal ever ate in one sitting, plus hash browns and a side of ham. Neal’s held his usual egg white omelette stuffed with lean chicken, a small amount of cheese, and as many vegetables as the cook could manage. He did have two pieces of wheat toast, because he was in training, but Mozzie would’ve killed him if he’d eaten potatoes cooked in oil. 

Peter eyed Neal’s plate in apparent horror. “That’s all?” 

“I hate you,” Neal muttered, trying not to look at Peter’s hashbrowns.

“You should’ve been a hockey player,” Peter said, cutting off part of his omelette and putting on his toast, making it into a sort of sandwich. 

“No, thanks,” Neal said. “I’ll pass on the repeated concussions.”

Peter laughed. “All right, fair enough.”

The two of them talked about other things over their food. Peter, it turned out, had grown up not that far away, outside Rochester. Neal had been training in Buffalo for the past five years, but he’d barely seen any of upstate New York. Any time off that he had, and he didn’t get much, he went straight to Manhattan. But Peter’s stories about his parents’ farm and what sounded like an idyllic childhood playing hockey and riding horses made him think that maybe he should give the area a chance after all. Neal, in turn, told him about growing up in St. Louis, where his mom still lived. 

“You see her much?” Peter asked. He used the last of his piece of toast to scoop up his last bite of omelette. 

“Almost never.” Neal shrugged. “She insists she doesn't have a problem with me being gay, but that’s always followed by, _But why do you have to talk about it so much?_ ” He sipped his coffee, since that was all he had left to do with his hands. “She came to Nationals. We had dinner. She's not coming to Salzburg - too far, too much of a hassle.” He’d been a little disappointed when she'd told him that, but he hadn’t been surprised. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, not looking like he was fooled for a minute.

Neal shrugged it off. “Moz and Sara will be there. And June, she’s my sponsor.”

“Your sponsor?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Coaches, ice time, costumes, travel - none of it comes cheap. I was in a real bind after Sara got injured and a bunch of our endorsements dried up. I met June at a fundraising event, and she took an interest.” Now, with his spot on the Olympics team, money and endorsements were finally starting to roll in again. If he medaled, in a few months he would be able to pay her back for everything she’d done for him. Not that she cared, but Neal did. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, they’re all the family I need. I take it your parents are coming?”

“Yeah. My sister, too. I probably won’t get to see them much, but it’ll be nice to know they’re cheering us on at our games.” 

Lena brought their bill, and he and Peter both reached for their wallets. “No, hey, I asked,” Neal said, and handed her his card before Peter could. 

“Okay,” Peter said, putting his wallet away. “I’ll get it next time. How about dinner, day after tomorrow? I know it’s soon,” he added, before Neal had time to respond, “but I only have a couple weeks left in town before I leave. And I thought - oh, God, I’m not reading you wrong, am I? I’m so bad at this sort of thing, lack of practice - well, and lack of natural ability -”

Neal would’ve sat there, not saying a word just to see what Peter might say if he let him babble, but he couldn’t help laughing. “Stop, Peter. You didn’t misread me. I’d love to have dinner with you.”

“Oh,” Peter said, sounding faintly surprised. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Neal said. “But I probably shouldn’t eat out, so what if we do it at my place? I’ll cook. If you want,” he added, a little self-consciously. 

“I do want,” Peter said, quickly. “That sounds great. I’ll bring wine. Wait, do you drink?”

He didn’t, usually, while he was training, but Neal decided he’d make an exception for this. “I’ll have a glass. Red, for preference.” He thought he might serve steak and salad, with potatoes for Peter. It was lean enough that Mozzie wouldn’t get pissed at him for blowing his nutrition plan, but caloric enough, especially with the potatoes, that Peter wouldn’t still be hungry at the end of the meal. “Seven o’clock okay?”

“Seven’s great,” Peter said, and glanced at his watch. “Damn, I’m going to be late for physical therapy. Here’s my number.” He quickly scratched it down on a napkin. “Text me your address?”

“I will,” Neal promised, and grinned as he watched Peter dash out the door. 

“Aw,” Lena said in disappointment, when she brought his credit card receipt. “I wanted to get a picture of you two to put on the wall. It’s not every day that I get Neal Caffrey _and_ Peter Burke in here.”

“Don’t worry, Lena,” Neal said, smiling as he scribbled his signature on the receipt. “I have the feeling we’ll be back.”

By the time he got home, it was just after nine-thirty, and Neal was starting to feel the very early morning he’d had. He was glad that June was out; she’d have wanted a report on that morning’s practice if she’d been home, and Neal didn’t feel up to the task. He climbed the stairs to his fourth floor apartment, where he pulled the heavy curtains shut before lying down.

He slept for several hours but woke before the alarm he’d set went off. He ate a salad with chicken and drank a protein shake standing up at his kitchen counter, then changed into fresh practice clothes and grabbed his skates. That time of day, the drive to the rink was only about twenty minutes, leaving him with plenty of time to stretch and make up for the lack of yoga that morning. 

He was just about done when Sara appeared in the doorway to the warm-up room, her own skate bag slung over her shoulder. “Hey,” she said, leaning there. “You ready?” 

“Yeah,” Neal said, standing. They went out to the rink together and sat down to put on their skates. The Zamboni machine was just finishing up out on the ice, and Neal waved his thanks to Harry, who was driving it. 

“So,” Sara said. “You and Peter Burke went out to breakfast this morning.”

Neal almost dropped his skate. “How do you do that?” he demanded. 

“I have my sources,” Sara said, smiling. “Lena, in this case,” she added, when Neal glared at her even harder. “I stopped and got a cup of coffee at the café on my way in.”

“Oh,” Neal said, glad to know that Sara couldn’t _actually_ read his mind. “Yeah, we did.”

“And?” she said, standing. 

“And he’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night,” Neal said. He tightened his laces and tucked them inside the boot before standing. 

“Dinner at home,” Sara said, sounding amused. She let him take her hand as they stepped out onto the ice. The surface was slick and a little wet still from the Zamboni, but by the time they were warmed up it’d be perfect. “Isn’t that moving a bit fast?”

“We don’t have much time before we both leave for Salzburg,” Neal said. His body synced itself automatically to Sara’s slightly shorter stroke, and they fell into their old rhythm, leaning into the turns at the same time, the scrape of their blades against the ice so perfectly synchronized that Neal couldn’t tell them apart. “Besides,” he said, as they both turned so they were skating backward, “I like him.”

“I know,” she said, smiling. “I knew before you did, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Neal said, and settled one hand at her waist. “Let’s shut up and skate.”

They ran through what had once been their standard warm-up routine, with some slight deviations because of Sara’s knee. Most days, she bailed when he started jumping, but today she must have been feeling pretty good; she stuck with him through a series of easier doubles and twists. 

“I’m out,” she finally said, bending to rub a hand over her knee. “And Moz’ll be here in a few minutes, so you’d better start warming up the good stuff.”

“You got it,” Neal said, and ran through the rest of his warm-up routine, trying to ignore the sense of loneliness that was always worse when he skated by himself after skating with Sara. After six years, it still didn’t really feel right to be out on the ice alone; it didn’t feel like home the way it did when Sara was with him. But it was, as he’d told Peter that morning, water under the bridge. Sara had made her peace with it, and so he’d had to, too. 

He’d landed a couple triple axels by the time Moz arrived, and he was feeling good enough to try a quad toe loop. He landed it cleanly. “Did you see that?” Neal asked, turning fast and coming to a stop. 

“I saw it,” Moz said, noncommittally. 

Neal frowned at him. “Well, don’t sound so excited.”

“What do you want, Neal, a cookie?” Moz replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not the first time you’ve landed it. But being able to do it once in a while in practice isn’t good enough.”

“I know that,” Neal said, nettled. “Do you want to see the free skate?”

“Yes, I do,” Moz said. “We’ll talk after.”

“Great,” Neal muttered. He already knew exactly what Moz would say, especially if he didn’t land the quad during the program. _You don’t need the quad to win. This isn’t a jumping contest, it’s figure skating._ And on one level, Neal knew he was right. Attempting a quad had become standard for men, but landing it was still hit or miss, and gold medals had been won without it, even recently. Moz and Sara had designed his program so that he _could_ win without it. But damn it, he didn’t want to. 

The program went well enough at first. Neal loved the music he and Sara had chosen for it: a medley of instrumental bits from the concert Metallica had played with the San Francisco symphony in 1999. He’d wanted music that would get his energy pumping and propel him through four and a half minutes of hard skating, and his S&M program had never failed to do that. Today he landed his triple-triple combination cleanly and managed to get right the footwork he’d been flubbing recently. But when it came time for the quad, he popped it - the whole thing fell apart in mid-air and he only managed one rotation. 

He almost threw in the towel after that, but he’d have to keep skating in Salzburg no matter how disastrous the mistake. He managed to finish the program strong; he thought the only major mistake he’d made had been the quad. Too bad that was the only thing anyone watching would care about. 

Moz was waiting for him at the entrance to the ice when he was done, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t say it,” Neal told him wearily, knowing it was futile. 

“I am going to say it,” Moz replied. “We need to think seriously about pulling the quad from the program. At this point, it’s nothing but a distraction. You’ve got twice as many jumps in the back-half as most other people will have. You can win without it.”

“I don’t want to pull it. I can do it, Moz. You know I can.”

“Is that really the point?” Sara asked from where she sat in the bleachers, icing her knee. “Moz is right. You don’t need it.”

“I know I don’t,” Neal said. “I just - I’m tired of hearing it, all right? For six years now, all I’ve heard is, _Caffrey can’t do the jumps_. First it was that I didn’t even have a solid triple axel, and then when I did, it was, _But he’ll never land a quad._ I’m sick of it. If I land a quad in the Olympics, it’ll shut everyone up.”

“And if you fall on a quad in the Olympics?” Moz asked. “What then? You need to see the big picture, Neal.”

“I am seeing the big picture,” Neal snapped. “No one else in serious contention for a medal will be skating without a quad.”

“No one else is as good as you are in other areas,” Moz retorted, with just as much heat. “Your spins, your elements - you're not a one-trick pony like some of those other guys. You don’t need it.”

Neal looked away, avoiding both their gazes. “Maybe not. But I want it.”

Moz shook his head, then turned to look at Sara. Sara shrugged. “Fine,” Moz said, turning back to Neal. “You have until we leave for Salzburg to prove to me that you can do it. If you’re not landing it in your program by then - and I don’t just mean once in a while, I mean _consistently_ \- then I’m pulling it. And I don’t want any argument about it, all right?”

“All right,” Neal said. That was probably the most concession he’d get from Moz. If he was honest with himself, it was the most concession he should get from him. 

“Good. Now show me that flying camel again, your entrance looked sloppy.” Moz waved his hand back toward the center of the ice, and Neal went, sighing to himself. It was going to be a long practice, he could already tell. But then he couldn’t help thinking about Peter and how he had looked, laughing across the table from him at breakfast that morning. 

“What are you smiling about?” Moz demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Nothing,” Neal said, then turned to catch Sara’s eye. She grinned at him, shaking her head, and even with Moz skating in grumbling circles around him, Neal couldn’t help but grin back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The popsicle eating contest I mention in this chapter [is totally a real thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S54Luk7hYjo) that Blackhawks PR made its Olympians do in 2010. The actual contest is funny, but the [outtakes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9UFhy-VNO8A) are funnier. 
> 
> Also mentioned in this chapter is the [You Can Play Project](https://www.youtube.com/user/YouCanPlayProject), which started in hockey but has expanded to other sports as well, encouraging young gay athletes to keep playing - sort of an athletes' version of the "It Gets Better" campaign (also mentioned in this chapter).

Being on the injured reserve list sucked. There was no two ways about it. Being on IR for _four months_ sucked a lot, and there had been times when Peter had thought he’d go crazy. Watching his team struggle through the worst case of Stanley Cup hangover he’d ever seen and being unable to do a damn thing about it had been awful. He was better now, able to be out on the ice and practice with the team, even if he wasn't cleared for contact yet. But it had been a long time since Peter had really had anything to feel good about, to get excited for. And now, with time to the Olympics being counted in days rather than weeks, he had two. 

All in all, the timing probably could have been better. Peter knew he needed to get his head in the game and focus on getting himself well enough for the doc to clear him, and then, once he was over that hurdle, he needed to focus on bringing home a gold medal from Salzburg. But all he'd been able to think for the last twenty-four hours had been, _Neal Caffrey likes me. He’s gorgeous and smart and funny and he likes_ me. He sounded twelve years old, even in his own head, but he was having a hard time caring. He was days away from starting to play hockey again, _real_ hockey, on the greatest stage in sports, and he had a date the very next night. Life hadn’t been this good in - actually, Peter wasn’t sure life had ever been this good. 

For the second morning in a row, Peter went out to breakfast with Neal after practice. He left Lena’s café feeling positively buoyant, and not even fighting mid-morning traffic in downtown Buffalo to get to his meeting with the Sabres’ front office could ruin his good mood.

Elizabeth Mitchell’s office was a corner one on the fourth floor, with a nice view of downtown Buffalo. “Hey, Peter,” her assistant Yvonne said when she saw him. “She’s ready for you, go on in.”

Peter knocked on the doorjamb. “Hey, El.”

She looked up from her computer with a bright, wide grin. “Hey there. Don’t just lurk in the doorway, come in, sit down. How are you?”

“I’m great,” Peter said, as he seated himself in front of her desk.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

Too late, Peter tried to tone his smile down by a notch or two. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Did you see the game two nights ago?”

That wiped the grin right off his face. “Right. Yeah, I did.”

“They lost two to four against Winnipeg,” El said indignantly. “Winnipeg!”

Peter sighed. “It happens. You know how it is the year after a Cup win.”

“This is not Cup hangover, and you know it,” El said flatly. “They lost to Florida last week, which is almost as bad. They need you back, Peter. Jones is great, don’t get me wrong, but he’d be the first to admit he hasn’t got the same pull in the locker room that you do. And their defense -”

“I know,” Peter said, grimacing. At least half of the losses the Sabres had wracked up had been because they’d just let the puck get past them too many times. “I’ll do what I can once I’m back. But I don’t think that’s why you asked to meet.”

“No,” El said. She put her elbows on her desk and leaned forward. “As you know, I’ve been asked to coordinate PR for Team USA hockey. I don’t want to distract you, but between you and me, you’re the best interview in the NHL. I want to make sure I can count on you to step up.”

“Of course,” Peter said. “You don’t even need to ask, El.”

She smiled. “And that’s why I love you. It’ll mostly be interviews - I might have you go down to Manhattan early to do some there, that’s where the team is meeting to fly out together anyway. Otherwise, there might be a few friendly face-offs with Team Canada, you know the drill.”

“I’m up for anything except another damn popsicle eating contest,” Peter said firmly. That had been El’s predecessor’s genius idea four years ago. “I had brain freeze for days.”

El held her hands up. “No popsicles, I promise. How do you feel about snow cones?” Peter glared, and she laughed. “Kidding, kidding. We’re still working on ideas, but I’ll let you know what we come up with. You and Jones are my go-to’s.”

“Great,” Peter said. “Anything else?”

“Just one thing,” she said, and turned the monitor of her computer toward him. “You had breakfast with Neal Caffrey this morning?”

Peter blinked, flabbergasted, at the screen. Someone at another table in the café had clearly taken the photo with a cell phone. It wasn’t a very good picture - he and Neal were both backlit against the window - but it was unmistakably the two of them, laughing together. “How the hell -” he started. 

“Twitter. Also, Instagram. By now there’s probably a dedicated Tumblr.”

Peter felt his ears start burning. “It was just breakfast. We’ve been sharing the ice the last few days, and we started going for omelettes afterward. That’s all.”

Belatedly, Peter realized that was the very definition of “protesting too much.” El’s eyebrows shot up. “I never said otherwise. I was going to say that if the two of you were friends and you wanted to do a joint interview, maybe let a photographer take some shots, it could be good for both of you. But now I’m wondering if you’ve been holding out on me.”

“I haven’t been,” Peter said, possibly a little defensively. “We just met a few days ago.” He hesitated. His private life was just that - private. But El had always been a good friend to him and nothing but supportive. “We’re having dinner tomorrow night. His place.”

El’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? Sorry,” she added, when he glared. “I’ve just never seen you date anyone, and it seems like a strange time for it, with the Olympics coming up so soon.”

“I wasn’t looking for it,” Peter admitted. “But there it is. Or might be. Hard to say based on a couple of breakfasts.”

“Hmm,” El said, and leaned back. She eyed him with a sort of sly speculation that made Peter want to squirm. “Well, you could do much worse. He’s gorgeous, and I remember him being a total sweetie, too.”

It was Peter’s turn now to raise his eyebrows. “When did you meet him?”

“Remember the ‘It Gets Better’ campaign a few years ago? I did some pro bono work for them, encouraging professional athletes to make videos. Caffrey did one.”

“Oh,” Peter said, and quashed a momentary pang of envy. He’d thought about doing an ‘It Gets Better’ video at the time. He’d _wanted_ to. He thought the campaign was a great idea, and he knew how important it was for kids to know their heroes had gone through the same things they did and come out the other side. But it was right after he'd been traded to the Sabres, and he hadn’t felt like it was the right time to come out. Not that it ever was the right time in professional hockey. He could’ve made an “ally” video, but that would’ve felt like the height of hypocrisy. The issue had come up again a couple years later with the NHL’s own ‘You Can Play’; he’d made his support of the campaign known then, but it’d been Jones who’d actually filmed a video. 

El was watching him knowingly. “Hey,” she said. “You know I’d never pressure you to do something you don’t want to, but you should know that if you _did_ want to, you’d have a lot of people standing behind you.”

Peter managed a smile. “Including the best PR manager in the business?”

“Including her. And Hughes and Jones and the rest of the guys - you know they wouldn’t care, right?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m pretty sure Hughes would say it was a distraction. And you know how it is with the team, we’re always in each other’s space, especially in the locker room. Jones wouldn’t care, but some of the other guys might.”

“Then screw ‘em,” El said, eyes narrowed. “They can learn to deal. And if you need someone to tell them to suck it up, you know where to find me.”

Peter smiled at her fierceness. "What about Phil Kramer? You going to tell the team owner to suck it up, too?"

El shook her head. “Kramer can’t touch you, and he knows it. The city would riot if he so much as thought about trading you. The team needs you. If nothing else, this season has proven that much."

"Maybe," Peter said, "but if I gave him an opening, I still think he'd take it."

El frowned. “Peter, has he said anything to you?”

“No,” Peter admitted. “It’s just a gut feeling. There wasn’t a lot of love lost between us during the lockout last year. I was a pain in his ass, and I don’t think he’s ever gotten over it.” He shrugged. “It’s a moot point, anyway.”

“For now,” El agreed. “But someday it might not be. And I just wanted you to know that if and when that day comes, I’ll have your back. And you might be surprised by how many other people will, too.”

Peter was touched despite himself. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” El nodded, and he stood. “Tell me where and when I need to be for publicity, all right?”

“Will do,” she said. “Say ‘hi’ to Neal for me, will you?”

“Will do,” Peter echoed, and let himself out.

The building was considerably busier than it had been on Peter’s way in, but he kept his head down, hoping to avoid running into anyone. He was just crossing the lobby, nearly in the clear, when he heard someone call, “Pete. A moment, please.”

Only one person called him Pete, even after repeated reminders that he really preferred Peter. Peter turned and saw Phil Kramer himself coming toward him. “Mr. Kramer,” he said with a smile he hoped didn’t look too forced. “How are you?”

"Not bad, not bad," Kramer said, reaching out to shake Peter’s hand. Kramer’s hand was sweaty and Peter resisted the urge to wipe his own on his pants leg afterward. "I'd be better if we were winning a bit more, of course."

Peter sighed. “They’re struggling, sir, that’s no secret. But I think we’re on an upswing,” he added, more out of loyalty to his teammates than any real belief that it was true.

“You wouldn’t know it by last week,” Kramer said, frowning. “Winnipeg and Florida are not two teams I expect Stanley Cup champions to lose to.” He smiled again, more shrewdly than broadly this time. "I'd hate to have to shake things up. I know that upsets you boys so much. But I’m sure things will pick up once you’re back.”

“I hope so, sir,” Peter said, with a distinct sense of disquiet. God help him if they didn’t. _Shake things up_ was Kramer-speak for _trade people_. 

“Shame you haven’t been cleared yet,” Kramer said, giving Peter a look of quasi-sympathy. “We could’ve used you these last few games.”

“I know, I was disappointed, too,” Peter said. “But the doc said he didn’t want to risk it.”

“Definitely not,” Kramer agreed. “It’d be a real shame for you to miss the Olympics - or to re-injure yourself there and miss the rest of the season.”

 _Ah._ So that was what Kramer was worried about. “Doc won’t clear me before I’m ready, and I’ll be careful in Salzburg. Believe me, I don’t want to do anything to hurt our playoff chances, either.” Kramer nodded, looking reassured, and Peter made a show of glancing at his watch. “Was there anything else I could do for you? I’m late for practice.”

“Oh, don’t let me keep you, then, Pete. Say ‘hello’ to Reese for me, will you?”

“Of course,” Peter said, and gratefully escaped out the doors and into the chilly winter morning. He took a deep lungful of fresh air and shook himself all over, trying to discard the creeping sense of unease that Phil Kramer always left him with. Trades were a fact of life in the NHL, and sometimes it worked out for the best; Peter had ended up on the Sabres after getting traded from Edmonton. But Peter had seen Kramer trade players out of spite, over their general manager’s objections, and that wasn't normal. The dislike that Kramer felt toward him was clearly personal. Usually that wouldn’t have worried Peter as long as he was playing well, but with Kramer, Peter just never knew what to expect.

Peter’s own theory, which only Jones had ever been privy to, was that Kramer was fueled mostly by jealousy. Kramer had played hockey himself when he was younger, but he'd never gotten out of the minor leagues. He'd made piles of cash in investment banking and bought himself a hockey team, albeit a pretty crappy one. Peter couldn’t fault the work he’d done pulling the Sabres out of the hole they’d been in, but he believed that deep down, Kramer resented hockey players who were more successful than he’d ever had the chance to be - in other words, every player on his team.

Peter shook his head, then buttoned up his coat and glanced at his watch again. He hadn’t been lying to Kramer about being late for practice. He would still be a few minutes late, but it wasn't as though the team was waiting on him, these days. He might still wear the Sabres' C, but they'd had to learn to get along without him. 

He could hear the team going at it even from outside the rink proper: the scrape of skates, the echoes of people hitting the boards, voices shouting - Hughes’s voice in particular. He didn’t sound happy, but that wasn’t surprising after their loss two nights ago. Peter changed in the locker room, and entered from the side to avoid disrupting practice. Hughes was standing on the sidelines, watching with a scowl on his face as the team ran drills with three of the assistant coaches riding herd on them out on the ice.

“Hey there, Reese,” Peter said quietly, and Hughes turned. "Sorry I'm late. I had a meeting with Elizabeth Mitchell up the street."

Hughes shook his head. "It's fine. You're here just in time to straighten these idiots out, hopefully. God knows I don't know what to do with them anymore."

Peter winced. “Sorry about the Winnipeg game."

Hughes practically growled. “It was a clusterfuck. The whole damn season’s been a clusterfuck. We’re barely holding onto a playoffs spot by our fingertips.” 

Not even making the playoffs the year after a Cup win would be humiliating. If that happened, players certainly would be getting traded, and Hughes would be lucky if he didn’t end up out of a job. “I'll do what I can.”

Hughes nodded. “I know you will. Actually,” he added, glancing at Peter sideways, “how would you feel about doing a little extemporaneous motivational speaking?”

Peter smiled. “What did you have in mind?”

That was how Peter came to be lurking nearby, watching as Hughes called the whole team off the ice and sat them down on the bench. He grinned, catching Jones’s eye, and Jones gave him a thumbs up. He stepped out onto the ice and glided out in front of them. He put his hands on his hips and eyed each of his teammates in turn, then shook his head. 

“Winnipeg, guys?” Peter said. “ _And_ Florida? Really?” The team went very quiet. Peter let that sink in for a few seconds. “Listen, it’s no secret that we’re not where we hoped we’d be at this point in the season. And it’s hard when you get on a rough streak like this - people start to talk, and you can’t help but wonder if the things they’re saying are true, and that just makes it harder to play well.” He paused; a few of the players were nodding, and Peter met their eyes before continuing. 

“But I’m not here to tell you what you need to do better. That's Coach’s job. I'm here to tell you that things are about to change. Salzburg is going to be a clean break for us - three weeks with no NHL hockey. When we come back, I’ll be back on the roster, but that isn’t the point - the point is that whether you’re going to Salzburg or not, you need to spend those three weeks getting your head screwed on straight. You need to shake it off, because it’s not over yet. There’s still a hell of a lot of hockey left to play, and we _will_ make it to the playoffs, Cup hangover be damned. Is that right?”

He waited. “Yeah!” Jones said, because he could always count on Jones. A few other people echoed him, but all in all, the response was rather lackluster. “I can’t hear you,” Peter said. “I asked, _is that right?_ ” 

“YEAH!” 

“That’s better,” Peter said, grinning. “Now get your asses out there, and show me you believe it.”

He spent the rest of the practice out on the ice, rotating between various groups running drills. He spent the longest time with his fellow defensemen; the Sabres' D had suffered more than any other aspect of their game for Peter's absence, and he could tell they were downright demoralized after their loss to Winnipeg. By the end of practice, Hughes looked marginally more pleased, but Peter knew the proof would be in the game they played that night against New Jersey. 

The Devils brought their A-game, but the Sabres were in better form than they had been in months. The hometown crowd had clearly turned up out of loyalty and not because they had any great hope of seeing their team do well, but when they ended the first period up by one goal, the excitement in the arena was infectious. Watching from the press box, Peter crossed his fingers, praying that their defense would be able to hold it together through the rest of the game. Blake, their goalie, was great, but he was young. Even if he hadn’t been, he should be their last line of defense, not their first.

Things fell apart in the second quarter, and they ended it tied 3-3. But the Sabres pulled it together in the third, playing the tightest defense Peter had seen from them since he’d been injured. It was a nail biter, but when the final buzzer sounded the Sabres were up again, 4-3. Peter watched with envy as the rest of the team swarmed onto the ice, enveloping Jones, who’d gotten two goals and an assist, before lining up to thunk Blake on his helmet. 

Jones being Jones, he glanced up into the press box and caught Peter’s eye, raising his gloved hand in a sort of salute. Peter grinned and waved back, shoving aside his envy. This called for a serious celebration. He’d gotten out of the habit of going out with the team after games while he was injured, but for a game like this, he’d get back into it. 

When Peter's alarm went off at four-thirty the next morning, he was reminded rather harshly of why the Sabres _didn’t_ have early morning practices, especially the day after a game. He probably would’ve said screw it and gone back to sleep, but the thought of seeing Neal again got him out of bed. A shower, a cup of coffee, and a whole wheat bagel with cream cheese, and he felt a little more human. 

Hell, at least they'd _won_. 

Peter was twenty minutes late to the rink, which he thought was pretty good, all things considered. Neal was already out on the ice - with Sara, Peter saw with some surprise. There was music playing, but it was some sort of jazz, not the music for either of his programs. Peter had the impression that they weren’t practicing a set routine, but rather making it up as they went along. 

Had it really only been less than two weeks? Peter suddenly thought, watching them. It felt like it should have been much longer. But maybe that was what it was like when you met someone. It had been so long since Peter had met anyone - so long since he’d _let_ himself meet someone - that he hardly had anything to compare it to. 

Neal lifted Sara into some sort of complicated hold. It looked effortless, but Peter was close enough to see that they were both sweating. He turned and dipped her toward the ice before setting her down.

“Okay,” Peter heard her say, “I’m done. Between today and yesterday my physical therapist is going to kill me. Hey, Peter!” she called, waving to him. 

“Hey, Sara,” he replied. She skated off the ice, and few seconds later the music shut off. “Hey, Neal,” Peter added, trying not to sound shy or self-conscious and probably failing. 

“Hey,” Neal said, skating over. “Thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

Peter shook his head. “We had a big win last night,” he said, and couldn’t help grinning at the memory. “Getting out of bed was kind of rough this morning.”

Neal laughed. “Got it. Well, you wouldn’t know it to look at you.”

Peter felt his face heat. “Uh -”

“ _Ahem_ ,” an unmistakable voice said. Peter turned to see Mozzie glaring at them both. “Romeos One and Two. Skate now, flirt later.”

“I wasn’t,” Peter said, indignantly. 

“I was,” Neal said, without a trace of remorse. “Fine, fine,” he added, when Mozzie continued to glower. He winked at Peter. “I’ll catch you after.”

Mozzie kept glaring at Peter even after Neal skated away; Peter could feel it. But he refused to give him the satisfaction of appearing chastised. He wasn’t Peter’s coach, after all, and if Neal wasn’t cowed than he certainly wasn’t going to be either. He skated out, avoiding Neal at center ice, and wrestled the net out. Diana had an away game that evening, so he was on his own. 

It took him a few minutes but eventually he fell into the rhythm of his drills. Despite a slight hangover, he felt better today than he had since before his injury - looser somehow, more confident. He was a natural athlete, and somehow he’d managed to get to almost thirty without a major injury. These last four months were the first time he’d really felt what it was like to be at odds with his own body, and it’d been a very uncomfortable experience. But he was never more at home than in a pair of skates with a stick in his hands, and this morning, everything finally felt _right_ again. Right enough that he was able to tune out Neal at the other end of the ice and forget about everything that wasn’t hockey for a while. 

Eventually, Peter became aware that someone - Neal - was calling his name. He took one last shot, then turned. “Yeah?” he called back.

“Sorry, I know you were in the zone,” Neal said. “But my time’s almost up, and I want to run my short, if that’s okay. And maybe,” Neal added, turning toward Mozzie, “maybe my exhibition?”

Mozzie puffed up with annoyance. “You,” he said, pointing his finger at Neal. “Shut your mouth. You’re tempting fate.”

Neal rolled his eyes. “I have to keep it warm, Moz.”

“Tempting. Fate!”

“I’m not going to get stuck skating an exhibition program I haven’t touched in two months if I medal, just because you have some bizarre idea that I’ll curse myself by running it. Sara, do you know where my hat is?”

“Probably in your locker,” Sara said, from her spot in the bleachers. She was icing her knee, Peter noticed. “Do you really need it?”

Neal looked affronted. “Of course I need it! I can’t run the program without it, there’s no point.”

“All right, all right,” Sara said and put her ice pack aside. “I’ll get it. Prima donna,” Peter heard her mutter as she limped past him. Peter hid a smile. 

In the end, Mozzie made Neal run his short program twice and would’ve made him run it a third time, except Neal waved him off. He collected his hat - a fedora - from Sara, and Mozzie declared that he wasn’t going to stand by and be party to such blatantly self-destructive behavior. He stomped off in a huff toward the locker room. Neal flipped the hat onto his head, tilted it rakishly to the side, and skated out. 

Peter went to stand next to Sara at the sound system. “I take it things went well today.” 

She nodded, scrolling through the iPod that was hooked up to the speakers. “He landed the quad two out of four times. That’s a big improvement. We still have a ways to go, but I’m hoping we’ve turned a corner. Ah, here we go,” she said, and hit “play.”

Peter had thought before that Neal was beautiful when he skated. But it wasn’t until the speakers belted out the opening to Dean Martin’s “Who’s Got the Action,” and Neal tilted his chin up and gave Peter an absolute shit-eating grin that Peter realized how reserved Neal was in his competition programs. The real Neal Caffrey was a showman, an artist, and a ham. He used the hat like an extension of himself, flipping it up one arm and down the other, tossing it away for a jump or a spin, but always picking it up again before long. The lyrics told the story of a man who was a bit of a cad, someone who could get what - and who - he wanted with a smile and a flip of his hat, and Neal played the part perfectly. Peter imagined a crowd’s reaction to the program and felt his smile widen, pleased and flattered beyond words that Neal - beautiful, charismatic Neal - was interested in _him_ , plain old Peter Burke.

The music ended and with it, Neal flipped the hat back onto his head one last time. Peter burst into applause. “That’s not the sort of hat trick I’m used to,” he told Neal as he came off the ice. “But it was something else. You’ll have them eating out of your hand with that.”

“If I get the chance to perform it,” Neal said ruefully. 

“You will,” Peter said. The smile Neal gave him this time was softer, more genuine. Peter cleared his throat. “Are we still on for tonight? Seven?”

“We’re still on,” Neal said, “but are you free earlier? I don’t think I’m going to get to nap, which means I’ll probably crash about nine.”

Peter knew exactly how that was. “Sure. Five then?”

“Perfect,” Neal said, and reached out to squeeze Peter’s arm. “I have to run, but I’ll see you then.” 

His hand lingered just a shade longer than normal, and Peter had to swallow before he could answer. “See you then,” he echoed. Sara gave him a dry look and followed Neal off toward the locker rooms.

Peter had the ice for another hour, but even without Diana there to yell at him for it, he knew his head wasn’t in the game anymore, not like it had been earlier. He forced himself through thirty minutes of drills, taking advantage of having the full expanse of ice to himself, before giving up. He showered and dressed, then bought a bottle of water to drink on the way home. 

The last person he expected to see waiting for him in the parking lot was Mozzie. Whose last name Peter suddenly realized he didn’t know. Possibly he didn’t have one. 

“Hello,” Peter said, slowly. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t know, Mouthguard. Can you?”

Peter fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Look, I’m hungry and pretty tired, so maybe quit with the cryptic bullshit and just tell me why you’re lurking out here?”

“Fine,” Mozzie said, scowling. “It’s about Neal.”

This time, Peter did roll his eyes. “I’d guessed that already. Look, if you’re worried I’m going to distract him, you shouldn’t be. I need to focus, too, and I’ll be leaving in a week to do some press in Manhattan before we fly out for Salzburg, so -”

“I’m not worried you’re going to distract him,” Mozzie interrupted. “I’m worried you’re going to _hurt_ him.” Peter stared at him, not even sure how to react to that, and Mozzie sighed. “Look, Neal acts like nothing touches him, but it does. He hasn’t had a relationship in five years, and the last one, when it ended, was a disaster. A public disaster,” he added bitterly, “since that subhuman Matthew Keller sold the whole sordid tale to _Us Weekly_.”

“Well, you definitely don’t have to worry about that with me.”

“I know,” Mozzie said. “That’s not my issue with you, Burke.”

Peter supposed _Burke_ was a step up from _Mouthguard_. “Then what is it?” he asked. He was suddenly aware that they were having this conversation out in the open. He wondered how Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr would interpret photos of Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey’s coach having a heated conversation in the parking lot of a skating rink. 

Mozzie stepped forward, right into Peter’s personal space. “You’re in the closet, and you have no intention of coming out. Which leaves Neal where, exactly?”

Peter blinked. “I think it’s a bit soon to be talking like this, don’t you? We haven’t even had our first date yet. We’ve had breakfast, that’s all.”

Mozzie _harumphed._ “Maybe it is. But I know Neal. I saw the way he lit up when you came in this morning. He doesn’t fall in love often, but when he does, it’s hard and fast. So I want you to think about this.”

Peter looked away. “Fine. I will.”

“I hope you do.” Mozzie stepped back and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Look, believe or not, I like you. You seem like a nice guy. But if you hurt Neal, I will create problems for you that you’ve never even dreamed of.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Are you joking?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Mozzie replied flatly. 

He didn’t. Peter swallowed against a sudden sense of unease. “I won’t hurt him. I wouldn’t.”

Mozzie shook his head. “You wouldn’t mean to,” he said, and walked away. 

***

Peter was standing on the sidewalk in front of June’s house when Neal pulled into the driveway. Neal swore under his breath. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, climbing out, grocery bags in hand. He handed the keys to June’s driver to put the car away. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“No, no,” Peter assured him. “Just long enough to wonder if I had the right place. You live here?”

“I do,” Neal said, and let them in the front door. “June owns it, and she lets me rent the top floor. That’s how I ended up training in Buffalo.”

“Huh,” Peter said, looking up at the high vaulted ceilings in the entryway. “And I thought my condo was nice.”

Neal shook his head. “You _own_ your condo,” he said, careful to keep his voice down. The last thing he wanted was for June to overhear and think he was ungrateful. “I just rent the top floor. Hey, June,” he added, as the lady of the house herself emerged from the downstairs dining room.

“Hello, Neal dear,” June replied, and let him kiss her on the cheek. “Care to introduce me to your friend?”

“Of course,” Neal said. “June, this is Peter Burke. Peter, this is June Ellington. Peter plays -”

“For the Sabres, yes, I know,” June said. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Peter shook her hand. “Likewise. You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Ellington.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said with a smile. “And just June, please. I won’t keep you boys, but if you’re cooking, Neal, feel free to use one of the kitchens.”

“Thanks, June. I think I’ll probably use the grill, if that’s okay,” Neal said.

“Of course! Enjoy yourselves.”

Peter didn’t say anything until they were two flights up. Then he said, “One of the kitchens?”

“There are three,” Neal said with a smile. “And a kitchenette in my flat, but it’s not much.” They reached the top and Neal let them into the apartment, glad he’d had the foresight to clean that morning. He’d thought he might not have much time when he got home, but he hadn’t anticipated Peter beating him there. But his bed was made - with fresh sheets, because Neal was an optimist - the kitchenette was clean and the table was clear. He’d also put his paintings away in the back, mostly because they took up too much space, but also because he didn’t feel like answering questions about them yet.

“How was your day?” Neal asked, as Peter opened the bottle of wine he’d brought. 

“All right,” Peter said. “I took a nap after practice, then hit the gym for a couple hours. How was yours?”

Neal grimaced. “Annoying. I don’t like the business side of things, I’m not any good at it, but things are finally starting to pick up again. I signed a contract with a gym franchise to do some work for them after the Olympics.” It wasn’t that he minded putting on a suit and going downtown to meet with people; it was that he minded the way they looked at him, like he was a piece of meat and they were wondering how much he’d fetch at market. “Anyway, enough about that. Steak and salad all right with you? I bought a potato, too - I wasn’t sure what your nutrition plan was like.”

“Steak and salad is great,” Peter said. “I’ll pass on the potato, though, this late in the day.”

“Got it,” Neal said, and left the potato in its bag. “Sorry it’s not ready, I thought I’d get home a little earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter said. He poured them both glasses of wine and left Neal’s sitting on the counter. 

Neal held his glass up in the gesture of a toast and met Peter’s eyes, holding them for a beat longer than necessary. “To Harry,” Neal said. Peter blinked. “And his inability to read a schedule,” he added, and Peter grinned. 

“To Harry,” he agreed, and lightly tapped his wine glass against Neal’s. He sipped and Neal did, too, though he knew he’d have to nurse this one glass for most of the evening. 

He put the steaks in a bag with some marinade, then put them in the fridge. He started pulling out veggies for the salad; Peter grabbed a couple of the tomatoes and washed them, then started slicing them up while Neal peeled and chopped a cucumber. 

“So, do you cook much?” Peter asked. 

“A fair amount,” Neal said. “It’s the only way I can really control what goes into my body, and when I’m training, I have to be really careful. You?”

Peter shook his head. “You’re looking at about the extent of my skills, unless it involves meat over an open flame. I was an Eagle Scout,” he added, when Neal raised his eyebrows at him. 

Neal laughed. “Of course you were.”

“No Boy Scouts for you?”

“No,” Neal said, “no time for it. And they wouldn’t have wanted me anyway.” Not to mention that the last thing he’d wanted at the end of a long day of being teased for being small and thin and noticeably effeminate was to go spend a couple more hours with the boys doing the teasing. He’d eventually shot up several inches and put on some muscle, but it wasn’t until he’d started skating with Sara that things really changed. They hadn’t gone to the same school - her family had a lot more money than his, and she went to a fancy, all-girls private school - but she was willing to go with him to dances and pretend to be his girlfriend. 

“Ah,” Peter said, a strange note of heaviness in his voice. Neal glanced at him, but he was concentrating very hard on the tomatoes. Neal waited, wondering if Peter would say what was bothering him. But it was only after Peter had scraped the chopped tomatoes off the cutting board and into the salad that he spoke. “Your coach, Mozzie - does he have a last name?”

“Yeah, of course,” Neal said, raising an eyebrow. “Moz is just a nickname, his real name is Theodore Winters. Why?”

Peter shook his head. “Just wondering. He came to see me after practice today.”

Neal almost cut himself when the knife slipped. “ _Damn_ it,” he said. Peter looked at him in alarm, but Neal waved him off. “Sorry, I’m fine, it’s just - you have no idea how many times I’ve been cockblocked by Mozzie.”

Peter burst into surprised laughter. “What?”

Neal grinned, even though the truth was that it wasn’t that funny from his perspective. “I had a bad relationship a few years ago. I think Moz was more traumatized by it than I was, and ever since then he’s been wary of anyone I’ve shown the slightest bit of interest in. Not that there’ve been many,” he added, adding the chopped cucumber to the salad bowl. He handed Peter a package of mushrooms to wash, and grabbed a bunch of carrots. 

“He said the guy you were with sold the story to _Us Weekly_.”

“Yup,” Neal said. “Outed me. Not that anyone was really that surprised. Deadspin ran the tag line, _Neal Caffrey is gay, and also, the sky is blue_.” Peter chuckled. Neal gave a shrug. “So it wasn’t as big of a deal as it could have been. But I hadn’t exactly been advertising it, mostly for my mom’s sake but also because - well, it’s not football or hockey, but figure skating can be a lot less tolerant than you might expect. I didn’t see any point in making things harder for myself. But in the end, it was the best thing that could’ve happened to me.”

Peter came back to the table with the washed mushrooms. “I have a hard time believing that.”

“It’s true,” Neal said. “It gave me a lot of freedom to speak up about things I’d been wanting to speak up about.”

“Ah,” Peter said. “Speaking of that, Elizabeth Mitchell said to say hello.”

Neal frowned. “Elizabeth Mitchell . . . that name is familiar.”

“You met her a few years ago when you did your ‘It Gets Better’ video.”

“Oh!” Neal said. “Yeah, I remember her now. She’s a publicist.” One of the best he’d ever worked with - efficient and assertive, but also funny and kind. He’d found himself wishing he could hire her privately, but her fees were higher than anything he could possibly afford.

“That’s El. She runs PR for the Sabres now. And the U.S. hockey team.”

“Good for her. She was so great to work with on that project. It was the first time I talked publicly about being gay, and she gave me a lot of great advice. But honestly, a lot of what I was worried about never came to pass.” Neal shrugged. “I don’t think it’s hurt me in competition at all.” 

“That’s good,” Peter said. He was quiet for a moment or two. “I’m not out,” he said at last. 

Neal glanced at him. “I know.” He frowned, cocking his head to the side. “Wait, is that what Moz is worried about?”

“It’s a fair point, don’t you think?” Peter said. “Secret relationships aren’t much fun for anyone.”

Neal rolled his eyes and set his knife down. “All right, that’s it. Come here.”

“What?” 

“Bring your wine and come with me.” 

Neal took his own wine in one hand and took Peter’s hand in his other. It was a little damp and cold from washing the mushrooms, but their fingers fit together perfectly when Neal slid his in between Peter’s. He led him out to the balcony with its view of the lake, and set his wine on the balustrade. He took a moment to savor the view, which was, without a doubt, the best in Buffalo. This time of year, it was very chilly, even if the afternoon had been relatively warm and the snow from yesterday had melted. The sun had long since set, but the light hadn’t yet completely faded from the sky. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Neal said, leaning on his arms. 

“It is,” Peter said. “I think I can see my condo from here.” He pointed down toward a row of condos by the water that Neal had always eyed with secret envy. Peter might not have a multimillion dollar view, but at least he owned his own home. “But, um, what are we doing out here?” 

Neal turned his back to the view to face Peter. He hadn’t let go of his hand, and he rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. “Look. It’s kind of Mozzie’s job to worry about me, but sometimes he overdoes it.”

Peter looked away, out toward the water. “He had a point.”

“Maybe,” Neal said, “but since we haven’t even had a first kiss yet, I refuse to take it into consideration.” He shrugged. “After all, it could be bad.”

Peter looked back at him, mouth quirking in a rueful smile. “Would it sound like hubris if I said I didn’t think that was likely?”

Neal grinned. "There’s only one way to really find out,” he said, and kissed him. 

It had been some time since Neal had last kissed someone he really liked. He had the occasional one night stand when he had time off to go to Manhattan, but kissing someone he knew he’d never see again was very different from kissing someone he knew he wanted to see again. And none of the men he’d slept with in New York had had anything on Peter Burke. He was broader than Neal all over, broad and strong, and Neal loved having that strength in his arms. But he kissed with a surprising amount of hesitation, as though he was as little unsure of himself. He let Neal steer the kiss, let Neal decide when to deepen it. Neal found it charming at first - it was a refreshing change of pace from guys who were pushy - but after a while it became a little frustrating. Peter had a natural kind of raw power about him, and Neal wanted to experience what it would be like to have that power turned on him. But then Neal slipped his tongue into Peter’s mouth, and Peter made a noise, deep in his throat. He suddenly turned, pressing Neal up against the balustrade, and Neal’s arousal, which had been steady throughout, suddenly shot through the roof. 

Gratifyingly, it seemed he wasn’t the only one. By the time they broke the kiss, both of them were breathing hard, and Neal could feel Peter’s erection pressed against his hip. Neal was just about to suggest they delay dinner and move things to the bedroom - he _had_ changed his sheets for the occasion, after all - but something made him pause. “Well,” he said, sliding his hands around Peter’s waist, “that wasn’t bad at all.”

Peter chuckled. “You can say that again.”

Neal smiled. “I’d rather do it again,” he said, and kissed him. It was softer this time, a little more familiar. Almost tender. He threaded his fingers into Peter’s hair, cradling the back of his head in his palm, and hummed contentedly. Peter’s grip on his hip tightened. This time, when the kiss broke, they stayed leaning together, forehead to forehead. Neal’s heart was racing and he couldn’t help thinking that this was what he’d been waiting for. He’d thought he’d found that with Matthew, once upon a time. Maybe it was just memory playing tricks on him, but that suddenly paled in comparison. He had never fully trusted Matthew, and it’d turned out he was right not to. But every part of him wanted to trust Peter Burke. 

And that was just a little scary. 

“I think we need to slow down,” Peter said at last. 

Neal smiled. “Why, so we don’t end up having sex on a balcony that doesn’t even really belong to me? I think it’s too cold for that anyway.”

“It is,” Peter said, looking down, “but that’s not why. It’s been a long time for me. A really long time.”

Neal ducked his head to find his mouth and kiss him again. “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he murmured against Peter’s lips, though that wasn’t a hundred percent true. 

“I’m glad,” Peter said, “but I need . . .”

“What?” Neal asked, softly, pulling back. 

“Time,” Peter said. “I don’t want to screw this up by moving too fast. I just - I need some time” His stomach growled then, and both of them laughed. “And food, apparently,” Peter added. 

“Food we can do,” Neal said. He squeezed Peter’s hand before dropping it and heading inside. 

They finished making the salad together, and then they took it and the marinating steaks down to the second floor kitchen; it was smaller than the one on the first floor that June’s cook used, but it boasted a stove-top grill. Neal turned it on and let it warm up for a few minutes, then took the steaks out of their marinade and flipped them onto it. They sizzled as they hit it.

 _Sizzling_ was exactly what Neal felt like he was doing by then. He took any opportunity he had to touch Peter, and he felt almost too aroused to be hungry. It was really too bad it didn’t look like there was going to be any actual sex involved in the evening, because Neal was fairly certain it’d have been spectacular. As it was, he was willing to settle for making out against June’s enormous stainless steel refrigerator. 

He was so distracted by Peter that he almost overdid the steaks, which would have been a travesty. But he managed to rescue them before they tipped over from medium into medium well. They carried the food back upstairs, and Neal let Peter pour him another half glass of wine to go with dinner. 

If the steaks were a little more well-done than Neal liked, Peter certainly didn’t seem to have any complaints. He devoured his, and then, when Neal couldn’t finish his because it had been months since he’d had so much red meat, the rest of Neal’s, as well. Neal ate a heaping plate of salad, and tried to watch Peter without being too obvious. Peter-watching was rapidly becoming one of his favorite activities.

By eight-thirty, Neal could feel himself starting to fade. Peter also looked tired as he helped Neal do the small amount of dishes. “Early to bed and early to rise,” Neal said ruefully, as he saw Peter to the door of his apartment. “Doesn’t do a lot for my social life.”

“I don’t know,” Peter said. “If you hadn’t been at the rink so early that morning . . .”

“I know,” Neal said. They paused at the door, and Peter leaned in to kiss him. Neal tasted wine and something that he was already coming to recognize as _Peter_. He thought long and hard then about asking Peter to stay. But Peter had asked for time, and that was something Neal could give him. Though if Peter left Buffalo without sleeping with him, Neal was going to be deeply disappointed. 

Once Peter had left, with one last lingering kiss for the road, Neal got ready for bed, going through his evening stretches. Then he climbed under the covers and pulled out his phone. 

“What?” Mozzie asked, sounding grumpy but not groggy, which meant that Neal had probably caught him after he’d gone to bed but before he’d fallen asleep.

“I could kill you,” Neal said. 

“What?” Moz repeated, sounding genuinely baffled.

Neal rolled his eyes. “You know what.”

There was a brief silence. Then Moz said, “Oh. The Mouthguard.”

“ _Peter_. And yes.” Neal took a deep breath. “That wasn’t your place, Moz. It’s not your job to protect me.”

“Not as your coach, no,” Moz said, “but as your friend -”

“Not even as my friend!”

“Well, someone has to,” Moz snapped. “And it isn’t going to be you. You have the self-preservation instincts of a suicidal lemming. Burke is a professional hockey player, and he’s not out of the closet. Do you really want a relationship you can never admit to? Think about that, Neal. Think about what that would do to you.”

Put that way, Neal didn’t want to think about it. “So you’d rather I just put an end to it now?” 

“Better now than in six months,” Moz said. “I know that’s harsh, but it’s true.”

“It isn’t true. Keep your nose out of this, all right? It’s my life. If I’m going to get hurt, I’m going to get hurt, but it isn’t going to be because I was too afraid to try. That’s not how I want to live.”

Moz was quiet. “Fine,” he said at last. “But if you’re going to get your heart broken, can you make sure it happens _after_ the Olympics? Come to think of it, could you avoid falling in love until then, too? That’d be ideal. What with you having worked your entire life for this and all.”

“Well, I’ll do my best,” Neal said, in a tone he knew was snotty. “Thanks for your support.” He disconnected before Mozzie could reply, and then sat in bed, stewing and annoyed, until his phone buzzed. He thought it would be Moz getting the last word in, but it wasn’t. It was Peter. 

_Thanks for tonight, it was great. See you in the morning._

Neal grinned. _My pleasure. Have a good night,_ he typed back, then put his phone on his bedside table and lay down. Sleep was longer than usual in coming; he just couldn’t seem to stop smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who helped with this story!

Unfortunately, Peter didn’t see Neal at morning skate the next day. He woke to his leg aching fiercely, a clear sign that he’d overdone things. He took some painkillers and elevated it, and tried not to be too annoyed with himself or his body. He was doing better, much better, and he had to believe that this was just a minor setback. He shot Neal a text letting him know he wouldn't be at practice and then watched stupid morning TV while waiting for his physical therapist's office to open at seven. 

Two days off the ice, that was the verdict, once Peter had finished describing the pain to his PT. Peter protested but Sonja was firm and pointed out that the last thing he needed was to re-injure himself this close to the Olympics. Peter had to agree, but it was still infuriating to have gotten so close to getting back to something vaguely resembling normal, only to have to back off and _rest_ for two days. He didn’t want to rest, dammit. And he was, if he was honest with himself, deathly afraid that this meant he wouldn’t be cleared for contact in time to go. 

He was still sulking an hour later when his phone buzzed with a text message. _What’s your address?_ Neal had written. 

Peter raised his eyebrows and texted him his address back. Five minutes later the doorbell rang.

Peter grinned, suddenly much less annoyed with the day. He got up and limped over to the door. “Special delivery,” Neal said cheerfully when he opened it. He held up two bags of takeaway. “From Lena’s.”

“Neal,” Peter said, and then stopped, not sure what else to say. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Neal said, and shooed him back to the couch to keep elevating his leg. Two minutes later he had a plate with a Denver omelette, ham, and two sides of toast on his lap and Neal sitting beside him, flipping through channels. He finally settled on a replay of this year’s X-Games, which Peter had to admit was a lot more fun to watch than whatever morning drivel he’d been staring at. 

“How was practice this morning?” Peter asked, after they’d both eaten in hungry silence for a few minutes. “I bet it was nice to have the whole rink for once.”

Neal shrugged and swallowed, chasing his bite of omelete with a swig of coffee. “Moz certainly took full advantage. But I’d have rather had you there than have the whole rink to myself. It wasn’t the same without you and Diana beating each other up.”

Peter sighed. “Well, my PT said I’m out tomorrow, too.”

“That sucks. But it’s not serious, is it?”

“No, just overexertion, I think. I’ve been pushing myself hard the last few days, early morning skate plus practicing with the team and strength training, too, some days.”

Neal nodded. “It’s good to rest then.” He was quiet for a moment, picking at the remains of his last piece of toast. “I strained my back once, back when I was still skating with Sara. It was right at the beginning of our first season skating at the senior level, and I didn’t want to take the time I needed to get better, so I didn’t tell Moz. Sara knew something was off, but I kept telling her I was fine, no, really, I was fine.”

“What happened?” 

Neal shrugged. “One day we were practicing our side by side double axels - easy stuff, compared to some of our other elements. But my back had decided it was done. I didn’t just fall, I _crashed_ , and then I just could not get up off the ice. I ended up being out for a month.”

Peter winced in sympathy. “I bet Sara wasn’t happy.”

“Oh, she was furious. But I learned that if I didn’t listen to what my body was telling me, it would eventually force me to, and then no one would be happy.”

Peter sighed. “Point taken.” He knew too many guys who’d played through injuries and ended up hurting themselves worse not to take pain seriously. But it still sucked, and it still worried him. His appointment with his doctor, where he’d either be cleared for contact or not, was only a couple days away now. This was really terrible timing.

“Good,” Neal said. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “I have to get going - my schedule’s pretty tight today. But I’ll see you later, all right?”

“Definitely,” Peter said. Neal kissed him, just a quick brush of his lips against Peter’s, and then was gone. 

Peter settled back to watch some snowboarding halfpipe and probably fall asleep for a while, feeling much better about everything than he had an hour ago. It still boggled his mind that he’d met someone like Neal, just out of the blue. The last time Peter had felt anything like he did towards Neal, he’d been nineteen, playing for Boston College, and he’d been head over heels for the captain of his team. Peter had barely known what to do when Eric seemed to return his feelings; it was the first time that had ever happened to him. They’d had six amazing months, until Eric graduated. They hadn’t ever officially broken up, but then again, they’d never officially been together either, and Peter knew, when Eric punched him on the arm and wished him luck the day after graduation, that he was really saying good-bye. 

Ten years. That had been _ten years_ ago now, and though Peter couldn’t regret any of those years, couldn’t regret the choices that had made anything but a quick, anonymous handjob impossible, he had to admit that he’d missed out. Missed out on feeling like this, and missed out on finding out what might come _after_ those first six months.

The Sabres had a couple days off in between games, so once Peter texted Jones that he was temporarily laid up, he had a steady stream of visitors. Some of the guys were even helpful, bringing food and, less usefully, beer. Peter was happy to let them occupy his sofa, even if it reminded him a little too much of the weeks after his injury, when Jones and Kegan had taken turns staying with him whenever they were in town, even though it hadn’t _really_ been necessary. He’d had to fend for himself when they were away, after all. But it had seemed to make them feel better, and it had been nice not to be on his own all the time. 

By the time his PT cleared him to get back on the ice two days later, his leg felt fine again. Peter stepped carefully as he got up in his pitch dark bedroom, waiting for it to twinge, but it didn’t. Thank God, he thought. He wasn’t sure what he’d done if he’d had to wait another day. 

He was a little late getting to the rink for his morning skate, and Neal was already deep into his practice when he got there. Peter didn’t want to interrupt, so he waved to Neal and Sara, ignored the fact that Mozzie was glaring daggers at him - there was one person who definitely had not missed him - and wrestled the net out at the far end of the rink. He ran drills for an hour, and when Neal asked if he minded vacating so he could run his long program, Peter stayed at his end of the rink. He wouldn’t have minded chatting with Sara, but the last thing he needed was lip from Mozzie. Besides, this gave him the opportunity to watch Neal without distraction. Watch him, and admire him.

Peter was watching Neal without really paying much attention to his actual skating, but it was hard to miss when he landed the quad. Peter still couldn’t tell the jumps apart, but Sara cheered and even Mozzie cracked a smile. Neal skated the rest of the program perfectly, as far as Peter could tell, and when he finished, coming to a stop at center ice, the first thing he did was give Peter a huge grin, even before he looked to Mozzie. Peter knew that this wasn’t going to do him any favors with Moz, so he settled for giving Neal a smile and a thumbs up, before heading back out to his drills.

Not long after that, Diana showed up, with Jones in tow. Jones was yawning and looking as though he’d rather be in bed, but he perked up once he got on the ice.

“Hey, Jones, I didn't know you’d be here,” Peter said, when they skated out to him. 

“Me neither, till Diana called me last night and told me I should be up, dressed, and ready to go when she came to pick me up. How you doing, Peter?”

“I’m good,” Peter said. “My leg’s feeling much better.”

“Yeah?” Jones said, raising an eyebrow. “That all?” He glanced meaningfully toward Neal at the far end of the ice, and Peter followed his gaze. Neal, somehow sensing that Peter was looking at him, turned and smiled. Peter smiled back, reflexively. 

“Whoa,” Jones said. “Man, Diana told me, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Didn’t believe what?” Peter asked. Jones gave him a look. Peter frowned at Diana. “You told him, Di?”

“I told him about you and Neal,” she said, keeping her voice down. “Believe it or not, boss, I didn’t have to tell him you were gay.”

Peter looked at Jones sharply. “I never told you.”

“Yeah, you didn’t have to,” Jones said. “You never talk about women, Peter. You never even look at them.”

Peter put his hands on his hips. “Maybe I just don’t like the locker room talk. Maybe I think it’s disrespectful.”

“Maybe,” Jones said. “That’s what I thought for a long time. But even when it’s just you and me, you never seemed to notice anyone. Any _female_ anyones, anyway. It’s okay, Peter. I don’t care. Well,” he added, “I don’t care that you’re gay. I sort of care that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”

Jones sounded hurt, and Peter had to look away. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I didn’t trust you - I always knew you wouldn’t care. But it was hard enough for me to keep it a secret. I didn’t want to ask anyone else to do it.” He skated backward, then forward, just a few feet, looking down at the ice. “Do you think anyone else knows? Any of the team?”

“It’s not something we talk about,” Jones said, “but I think yeah, probably.” His hand landed on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drop this on you before seven in the morning. You know that if you’re happy, then nothing else matters, right?”

Peter shook his head. “It’s not that easy.”

“It can be,” Diana said. “When you find the right person, boss, you’d be surprised how easy it can be.”

“Well,” Peter said, and glanced toward Neal again. He was deep in conversation with Mozzie and Sara and didn’t seem to notice this time. “Maybe.” He shook his head. “Enough of that. Come on, let’s skate.”

He was kind of tight after two days off, but practice was a lot more fun with both Diana and Jones there. They switched off playing offense and defense, a weird, three-sided scrimmage where no one kept track of the score. Jones didn’t go after him the way that Diana did, because, unlike Di, he had _some_ respect for the fact that Peter still hadn’t been cleared for contact. But since the women’s league had weird rules about body-checking, this was really the only chance she had to throw people into the boards the way Peter knew she so enjoyed. 

He was deep enough into the scrimmage that he didn’t notice the ice had cleared until Jones, picking himself up after Diana had knocked him down and stolen the puck, said, “Hey, looks like your friend Caffrey is done - let’s pull out the other net and have ourselves a _real_ game.”

Peter looked over and saw that Neal had cleared off, but he was standing at the entrance to the ice. He’d traded his skates for sneakers, but he was still in his practice clothes, and he was watching them with a smile. Peter left Diana and Jones to deal with the net and skated over. “Hey,” he said, coming to a stop in a spray of ice. 

“Hey,” Neal said. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You looked like you were having too much fun. You’re feeling better?”

“Much better,” Peter said. “I just need to make sure to give myself enough downtime.”

Neal nodded. “You want to get breakfast after?”

“Actually, I was thinking I’d probably better treat Jones and Diana to breakfast, since they came out at the crack of dawn just to scrimmage with me,” Peter said, a little regretfully. “But maybe dinner tonight? My place?”

“I thought you couldn’t cook,” Neal said. 

Oh right. Peter had forgotten about that. Mostly he’d just been looking for a way to get Neal alone. “Um . . .”

Neal laughed. “All right, tell you what. There’s a Mediterranean place near your condo that I like. Let’s go there for dinner, and then we can head back to your place for . . .”

“Dessert?” Peter suggested.

Neal smiled. “Sure. Let’s call it that. Let’s say six. Oh, and try not to break any bones between now and then, all right?”

“I almost never do,” Peter said with a grin. Neal shook his head and headed out. 

“Man, you got it bad, don’t you?” Jones asked when Peter returned. “You’ve got the goofy grin and the puppy dog eyes. Never thought I’d see the day when Big Bad Peter Burke had _puppy dog_ eyes.”

“I do not have puppy dog eyes. Diana, tell him.”

Diana laughed. “Boss, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you totally do. It’s okay, it’s kind of adorable.”

Peter gaped. “Hockey players are never ‘adorable’!”

“Sure, boss, whatever you say.” Diana grinned and sent the puck his way; Jones rushed in to try and steal it, and from there it was on. 

By the end of practice, Peter’s leg had loosened up nicely, and he’d _almost_ managed to silence the voice in the back of his head that had been telling him for the past two days that he really shouldn’t be going to the Olympics. But Jones and Diana knew him better than almost anyone, and Peter knew he wasn’t fooling either of them with his studied nonchalance.

Sure enough, they’d barely gotten their food at breakfast before Diana pinned him down with her gaze and said, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Peter asked blankly, taking a sip from his coffee mug.

Diana gave him a dry look. “Self-doubt isn’t a good look on you, boss. I’ve watched you fight your way back from this injury tooth and nail. If anyone deserves to go to the Olympics, it’s you.”

“What she said,” Jones said, mouth full of toast. 

Peter had to crack a smile at the disgusted look she gave him. “Thanks. It’s just - it’s hard not to wonder, especially when they still haven’t cleared me for contact.”

“When’s your appointment with the doc?” Jones asked. 

“Tomorrow,” Peter said. If the doc cleared him, then he’d be heading to Salzburg as planned. If he wasn’t - well, then that would be that. Everyone was acting as though it was a sure thing that he would be, but Peter knew there was always a chance that it’d go the other way, especially after two days off the ice for overexertion. And if he was honest with himself, he’d rather give up the Olympics than risk the rest of the NHL season. The Sabres had a Cup title to defend, and though it was extremely rare to win it twice in a row, no one was going to take it from them without one hell of a fight.

“It’ll be fine, Peter,” Jones said, with all the confidence Peter couldn’t quite feel.

“Right,” Peter said, dredging up a smile for him. “I know.” 

Peter probably would have spent the rest of the evening worrying about his doctor’s appointment the next morning, but his date with Neal provided a welcome distraction. That evening, he was getting ready to go meet Neal - which mostly involved rejecting every tie in his wardrobe and then wondering if he really needed to wear a tie at all - when his phone rang. He answered it absently, while trying to decide on a shirt. “Burke,” he said. 

“Hi, Peter, it’s Elizabeth.”

“Oh, hey, El, how are you?”

“I’m doing well, though not as well as you are, I hear.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Did you talk to Jones?”

“Yes. He said you’re all lovesick and it’s adorable.”

“I am not lovesick,” Peter protested. And then, because he didn’t seem to own a single shirt that didn’t suck, he muttered, “ _Damn it._ ”

“What’s wrong?”

“All my clothes are awful.”

El didn’t even bother to try and hide her amusement. “That’s never seemed to bother you before. Unless - ah. You have a date tonight, don’t you?”

“Possibly,” Peter replied. “Uh. It’s in public this time, so there might be pictures -”

“There will _probably_ be pictures,” El corrected him, “and I don’t care. I will deal with whatever comes along, and I can’t imagine that anything you might do would even approach some of the stunts your teammates have pulled over the years. Wear the dark green shirt, the one you wore for the _Sportscenter_ interview last year. It really brings out the green in your eyes.”

“I don’t have green in my eyes,” Peter said, though he did dig through the closet to find the shirt in question. “My eyes are brown.”

“Your eyes are hazel, and there is green in them,” El replied. “Wear the shirt open at the throat, but make sure you don’t have chest hair peeking out, that look is not sexy. Blue jeans, dark.”

“I don’t know how fancy the restaurant is.”

“It’s in Buffalo, it can’t be that fancy. Dark jeans, no tie.”

“Thank you,” Peter said, with relief. 

“No problem,” El said. “But believe it or not, I didn’t call to play _What Not to Wear_. You know how I mentioned wanting you to go down to Manhattan early to do a round of press?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. He put his cell phone on speaker and set it down on the bed, then shrugged out of his shirt and started unbuttoning the green one. “Wait.” He paused. “When’s early?”

“Friday. I’ve booked you an interview on _Sportscenter_ that night and on a few of the weekend sports shows, and then I’d like you to do the morning shows on Monday.”

It was Wednesday. He’d have to go down to the city on Friday afternoon. He’d known he’d agreed to do press early, but he hadn’t thought through what that would mean. Normally he wouldn’t have cared, but now - he’d hoped to have few more days with Neal before he had to leave. 

“Peter?” El said after a moment. “I know it might not be ideal for you personally right, but -”

“No, it’s fine,” Peter said. “Sorry, I just didn’t think - but it’s fine.”

El, to her credit, didn’t ask if he was sure. “Thanks, Peter. I think the rest of the team will join you on Monday and then we’ll do some more publicity on Tuesday before you fly out Wednesday for Salzburg.”

“Sounds good,” Peter said, knowing he didn’t sound terribly convincing. 

“Have fun tonight, all right? I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Talk to you soon,” Peter said, and hung up.

He tried not to let it get to him as he finished getting ready, following El’s suggestions to the letter. He’d known he and Neal would be flying to Salzburg separately, after all, and they would see each other there, Peter would make sure of it. But he didn’t know how much scrutiny each of them would be under, how much privacy they would have; based on his experience at the last Olympics, he didn’t think they’d have much. And with everything between them so new, he didn’t know what it would do to them. But he did know that he didn’t want things with Neal to end, and he was finding it difficult to fathom putting them on hold when they were just getting started. 

He was ready too early, and he spent fifteen or twenty minutes cooling his heels in his living room, watching game tape of the Sabres’ win from the other night. By the time Neal knocked on his door, he was actually more nervous than he had been the night before. 

Peter opened the door and was instantly glad that he’d had the chance to ask El what he should wear. Neal looked stunning in a dark blue shirt that matched his eyes and black jeans that hugged his ass. Peter found himself thinking that he wasn’t _that_ hungry, really. But they hadn’t had a proper date yet, and Peter felt he owed it to Neal. He restrained himself to a single, not-quite-chaste kiss. 

They decided to walk, since the restaurant wasn’t far. The evening wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t raining or snowing and the sidewalks were clear. It turned out to be a place Peter had walked past a million times and never actually gone inside. Neal had made reservations, which seemed unnecessary to Peter for a Wednesday evening. But when the hostess showed them to a table tucked in the back, half-hidden behind a screen and away from prying eyes, he understood. 

“I thought it would be better this way,” Neal said, opening his menu.

“I don’t want you to think we have to hide,” Peter said, frowning. “I’m not ashamed of us.”

“I know you aren’t,” Neal said, meeting his eyes, “but the fact is, you’re not out. Peter, I was outed in the tabloids and on the internet. In the long run, it was a good thing, but in the short run, it was terrible. If you decide to come out, I want it to be a decision you make, not something that happens to you. That means that we can either hide a little, for now, or we can pretend that we’re _not_ out on a date. I’d rather be able to touch you.”

Peter relaxed. “You’re remarkably clear-headed about all of this.”

Neal shrugged. “I can afford to be. The worst thing that could happen to me did, and I’m still standing. That tends to give you a certain perspective.”

Peter supposed it would. They were quiet for a few minutes, perusing the menu. It was a small table, and Peter could feel how close their knees were to touching. It took all his willpower just to concentrate on the menu long enough to make his selection. 

“So,” Neal said, once the waiter had come to collect their orders, “how was the rest of your day? Did you go out to breakfast with Diana and - sorry, what was his name?”

“Clinton Jones,” Peter said. “He’s a teammate of mine. And yeah, I did. They both had to head out after that, but I got some good strength training in this afternoon.”

“How’s the leg feeling?”

“Good,” Peter said. “Really good. I was careful today, but I’m back up to my pre-injury weight.”

Neal smiled at him, fondly. “You’re going to show them all.”

“That’s the plan,” Peter said, and carefully reminded himself of what Diana had said that morning. He’d fought his way back, and he deserved to go to Salzburg just as much as anyone else. “Just one last hurdle to jump, and then I’m free and clear.”

“And what hurdle is that?” Neal asked. 

“The doctor’s appointment clearing me for contact,” Peter said, grimacing. 

Neal frowned. “Surely that’s just a formality at this point?”

Peter shrugged. “That’s how everyone’s treating it. But if the doc doesn’t like what he sees tomorrow, that’s it. I’d actually rather not talk about it, if that’s okay.” The last thing he wanted was to get worked up about it. At this point, he’d done everything he could possibly do, and if he was leaving on Friday for Manhattan, then he was going to make the most out of every minute he had left with Neal. 

“Sure,” Neal said easily. 

“Thanks,” Peter said gratefully. There was a brief, awkward pause, while they both tried to think of something else to talk about. Finally Peter said, “I, uh, saw you land the quad today.”

Neal nodded, looking down. “It was a good day. Moz says I need to be able to land it on a bad day, too, but I’m up from landing it about thirty percent of the time to landing it about fifty percent, so you know, I’ll take it. But I don’t really want to talk about that either. Tell me,” he said, leaning forward, “what does Peter Burke do in his spare time?”

Once upon a time, Peter wouldn’t have known how to answer that. He didn’t really have spare time when he was playing hockey, and any spare time he did have was usually spent with his team. But after his injury he’d had a _lot_ of time on his hands. He’d started reading again - mostly biographies and autobiographies of great athletes - and he’d also undertaken some pretty serious home renovation projects. Neal seemed oddly interested in those, and Peter found himself talking for longer than he intended about tearing out the cabinets that had come with his condo and putting in new ones. 

“But weren’t you on crutches?” Neal asked, picking at the remains of his salmon and vegetables.

“This was after I got off of them,” Peter said. “I’d always known the cabinets were ugly, and I thought I’d do something about them eventually, but I was never home long enough to really care. But then I was basically housebound, and I kept having to look at them. By the time the cast came off, I hated them. The first thing I did was make Jones and a couple of the other guys come over and help me rip them all out.”

“Sounds like fun,” Neal said, in a tone that meant it really didn’t. 

Peter shrugged. “It’s amazing what starts to sound like fun when you can’t walk for six weeks. What about you? What do you do when you get some time off the ice?”

Neal hesitated, but Peter waited, patiently, and saw the moment he decided to throw caution to the wind. “I paint,.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Like watercolors?”

“Mostly oils. But yeah, like that. It’s just a hobby. Mostly I do reproductions, but occasionally I get inspired to do my own work.” He shrugged. “They’re not that good. I’ve never really had the time to devote to it. Sara always says I should go into art restoration or something after I retire, but that’d take a lot more training than I have. On the other hand, it’s not like there are a lot of career opportunities out there for skaters once they’re no longer competing.”

“It’s the same in hockey,” Peter said with a rueful smile. “I have a degree, so I’ll probably be all right, but sometimes I look at my teammates and I worry. But I know none of them would trade getting to do this for any amount of future stability. I definitely wouldn’t.”

“Me neither,” Neal said, and reached across to cover Peter’s hand with his own. “Even if sometimes it gets in the way of other stuff.”

Peter thought he probably wasn’t going to get a better opening than that. “Yeah. On that particular topic, I got a call from Elizabeth this afternoon. The team is flying out of New York together next Wednesday, and she wants me to go down early and do some publicity. I assumed ‘early’ would mean Monday, but it doesn’t.”

Neal frowned. “How early are we talking here?”

“Friday afternoon.”

“Wow,” Neal said. “That is, um, that is early.”

“I know,” Peter said, “I’m sorry. I thought - I wanted us to have more time, but I told El -”

“Hey, hey, stop.” Neal squeezed Peter’s hand. “Don’t apologize, all right? It happens. We still have a couple of days, and I’ll see you not long after that in Salzburg, right?”

“I know,” Peter said. “I just thought we’d have through the weekend. And Olympic Village - there’s no privacy at all.”

“But there also isn’t any press,” Neal pointed out. “And I, at least, will probably have a roommate who doesn’t care. It’s okay, Peter. But,” he added, holding his hand up to catch their waiter’s attention, “if you don’t take me back to your place right now, I’ll be _very_ disappointed.”

“No dessert?” the waiter asked when he came over and Neal asked for the check.

“Not for me,” Neal said, sounding regretful. “Peter? The tiramisu is amazing.”

“Not for me either,” Peter said. 

“We’ll come back after the Olympics and have some,” Neal said, half to the waiter, it seemed, and half to Peter. 

Peter insisted on paying, since Neal had not only paid for breakfast the first day but also for the food the night before. They were both quiet on the walk back to Peter’s condo; it was colder than it had been earlier, with a wind off the lake that had a definite bite to it. By the time they reached the condo, Peter was chilled through to the bone. He turned up the heat, then flipped the switch for the gas-burning fireplace for good measure. “I’m going to make some tea, you want some?”

“Please,” Neal said, taking off his jacket and sitting as close to the heater as possible. 

Peter made two mugs of peppermint tea and carried them out to the living room. He sat down beside Neal and handed his mug over before sipping at his own. “Ahh, that’s better.”

“Mmm,” Neal hummed in agreement. They were both quiet for a moment, sipping their tea and warming up. Then Neal set the mug aside and reached for Peter. He took the mug out of his hand first, set it on the coffee table, then caressed the side of Peter’s face. His hand was warm from the mug and Peter closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. His eyes were still closed when Neal kissed him.

They’d kissed a lot the night before, but Peter still felt self-conscious. Neal kissed like he really knew what he was doing - it certainly _felt_ like he knew what he was doing - and though Peter had it on decent authority that he had good instincts, he was still a lot less experienced in that area than any twenty-nine year old guy should be. But Neal didn’t seem to mind. He slid his hand into Peter’s hair, deepening the kiss, and threw one leg over Peter’s lap so that he was straddling him. Abruptly, Peter forgot to be self-conscious. He pushed up to meet him, then slid his hand along Neal’s waist, encountering the edge of his shirt and soft bare skin. 

Neal shivered. “Mmm?” Peter tried to ask.

“Nothing. Your hands are a little cold,” Neal murmured against Peter’s lips. Peter started to take them away, but Neal took them in his own and put them back. “They’ll warm up,” he said, and kissed him again. 

Peter didn’t know how long they stay there, making out like teenagers and basically dry-humping on his sofa. All he knew was that he really didn’t want it to end, that part of him wanted to stay right there, forever, with Neal, and screw the rest of his life. He knew that wasn’t possible, but Neal made a lot of things he’d never thought he could have seem possible, made him want things he hadn’t dared to want in years. 

“I should go,” Neal said at last, with a definite note of reluctance. He let his head drop to rest in the crook of Peter’s neck. 

Peter stroked a hand up and down Neal’s back and was tempted to ask him to stay. He was the one who’d said he needed time, but they didn’t have much time, and he didn’t want to waste any of it. But asking Neal to stay would mean asking for things he wasn’t sure they were ready for. Or that he wasn’t ready for. 

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Peter asked. “Not at practice, I mean.”

“You’d better,” Neal said, and kissed him again. Peter could feel his resolve weakening, but before long Neal sighed and slid off his lap. “I have the rink in the afternoon until six. Pick me up after that?”

“Sure,” Peter said, standing to walk Neal to the door. “Did you, um, have something in mind?”

“Oh, I have lots of things in mind,” Neal said with a smirk. “But let’s just play it by ear.” He kissed Peter one last time. “Sleep well, Peter.”

“You, too,” Peter said. He watched as Neal jogged down his front steps and headed up the street toward his car. Then he shut the door and leaned against it, taking a deep breath. Between Neal and his doctor’s appointment the next morning, he wasn’t at all sure how well he’d sleep, but he supposed he’d better try. 

***

Skating had its ups and downs, just like anything else. Neal had tried to hide it, but he’d been in the doldrums for a while now. He loved the artistic, performative side of skating, loved being able to work a crowd, but the truth was that that wasn’t rewarded much anymore. So far, Neal had managed to hold his own because he was very good at certain things, but he’d never placed higher than fourth at the international level. 

But now, he couldn’t remember ever being happier, on or off the ice. He practically whistled his way through practice the next morning, until Sara was laughing at him and Moz was scowling. He had to prevent himself from looking over at Peter, because he knew that if he did he’d end up grinning, and that would only piss Moz off more. But since he landed three out of the five quads he attempted, Moz really couldn’t say very much. He even did his post-practice yoga without complaint while waiting for Peter to finish up. 

Peter still hadn’t come off the ice when Neal finished, so he went and sat in the bleachers. Neither Jones nor Diana was with him today, and Neal could tell that Peter wasn’t having a very good time. Neal didn’t know if it was just an off day or if - and this was more probable - he was anxious about his doctor’s appointment later in the day. 

It took Peter a few minutes to realize he was there. When he finally noticed him, he heaved a sigh, shoulders slumping, and skated over to the boards. Neal got up and jogged down to meet him. 

“Hey,” Neal said. “You okay?”

Peter shook his head. “I’m not ready,” he burst out. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I was an idiot to think I could come back from a broken leg in four months and be ready to play in the Olympics, and that’s exactly what the doc is going to tell me today.” He threw his stick down on the ice and covered his face in his hands before raking his fingers through his hair.

“Hey, hey, stop,” Neal said, reaching out to catch one of Peter’s hands. “If that were really true, I think someone would’ve told you by now, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Peter said, sounding tired. 

“Has the team’s doctor ever lied to you before about your health?” Neal asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“No,” Peter admitted. His fingers tightened on Neal’s. “I just - I want to go. I want to go so badly, but not if it runs the risk of ruining the rest of my season. I just had to take two days off for overexertion. What if they clear me and I’m not ready and I re-injure myself?”

“And what if I fall on a quad tomorrow or in the short program and injure my back or break a rib?” Neal countered. “It’s happened. Injuries are always a possibility.”

“I know,” Peter said, finally meeting Neal’s eyes. “I’ve just - I’ve seen guys be so stupid about them in the short term that they ruin their careers and their bodies and their _lives_ in the long term. I don’t want to be one of those guys.”

“You won’t be,” Neal said, confidently. “You’re smarter than that, and you’ll listen to the doc even if he tells you something you don’t want to hear.” Peter shrugged and nodded, not looking particularly convinced. Neal hesitated; the truth was that he didn’t know enough about Peter’s situation to say for sure what was going to happen. It was always possible that the doctor wouldn’t clear him, and if that happened, it would be for Peter’s own good. But to fight his way back from an injury like that only to be told at the last minute that it was all for nothing would be awful. It _had_ been awful, when it’d happened to Sara. “Do you want me to come to the appointment with you?” he asked at last. 

Peter looked tempted, but then he shook his head. “No. I’m okay. But thank you,” he added, all the breath rushing out of him. “Thank you for asking. That means a lot.”

“Of course,” Neal said, and reached across the boards to hug him. Peter had been holding himself stiff and closed off, but as soon as Neal touched him he melted, tucking his face into the crook of Neal’s neck. “Whatever happens,” he murmured in Peter’s ear, “it’ll be okay.”

“When you say that, I almost believe it,” Peter said with a tired chuckle. 

Neal pulled away. “Call me after?” Peter nodded. 

Peter’s appointment was at ten, so there wasn’t time for them to get breakfast. Neal headed home to take a nap before his afternoon practice. He did some tidying as well while he was there, and didn’t even pretend it wasn’t out of optimism about his date with Peter tonight. If all went well at his appointment, and Neal was confident that it would, Peter would be leaving for Manhattan the next afternoon, so this would be their last night together. Peter had asked for time, but Neal could also tell the night before exactly how close Peter had come to asking him to stay. 

He was doing some dishes that’d been piling up in his sink when his phone went off, Peter’s name flashing across the screen. Neal answered it on the second ring. “How’d it go?” he asked, without preliminaries.

“I’m cleared!” Peter said, sounding elated. “He said everything looked great and there was no reason for me not to go. He did say I should be careful and not overwork it, but otherwise, it was fine.”

“That’s great,” Neal said, grinning from ear to ear. “We’ll have to celebrate tonight.”

“Yes,” Peter said, his voice dropping a little. Neal felt his toes curl. “We definitely will.”

“Did you have anything in particular in mind?” Neal asked, leaning against the edge of the sink and smiling. 

Peter chuckled. “I have a lot of things in mind. We’ll have to pick and choose from all the things I have in mind.”

“Well, it’s the first time,” Neal said. “But if I have anything to say about it, it won’t be the last.”

“Me too,” Peter said, and laughed, a little breathlessly. “I have to go. But I’m looking forward to tonight.”

“Me too,” Neal said, and let him go. He held onto his phone for a moment, marveling at how much _lighter_ Peter had sounded on the phone just now. Neal had known that the appointment had been weighing on him, but he didn’t think he’d understood exactly how much. He wondered if it had had anything to do with Peter’s desire to take things slow - if, consciously or unconsciously, he hadn’t wanted to do anything that might distract him from his training until he knew that he’d be going. Maybe he’d just been afraid to let himself be happy until he knew for sure. Either way, Neal was deeply relieved on Peter’s behalf - and pretty damn excited on his own - when he went to take his nap before heading back to the rink. 

The last thing he did before getting ready to leave for the rink again was pull his paintings out of hiding. He had a whole roomful of them in the back of his apartment, but he only brought out a few. He knew Peter would want to see them, and truthfully, Neal didn’t feel that strange about showing him a carefully curated selection. He set up the easel with his work in progress, a reproduction of Monet’s _Water Lilies_ that he was working on for Sara’s birthday, and then brought out a couple of his originals that he was most fond of - images of Buffalo, mostly, done in various styles. His favorite was the Cubist version of the view from his balcony. 

Despite having had an excellent practice that morning, Moz kicked his ass for a solid two and a half hours that afternoon, with very little break. Neal ran both his programs several times each, reworking individual bits that Moz wasn’t satisfied with, until he started to get sloppy out of exhaustion. By the time Moz let him go, he barely had enough time for an extremely necessary shower before Peter picked him up. 

Clean and back in real clothes, Neal felt slightly more human, but he could tell he’d really be feeling the practice in a couple of hours. His legs still felt wobbly when he exited the locker room to find Peter chatting with Sara in the lobby. 

“Hey,” Peter said, standing. 

“Hey,” Neal said, managing a tired grin for him. “Congratulations.” 

“Thanks,” Peter said, grinning back. “You okay? Sara said Moz really put you through your paces.”

“You could say that,” Neal said, ruefully. “I don’t know what got into him. He was like that before Nationals - I was training almost non-stop then, any time I could get the ice - but he’s eased up since because he doesn’t want to risk an injury before Salzburg.” 

Sara winced. “It might be my fault, actually.”

Neal frowned. “How so?”

She sighed. “I might’ve mentioned to Moz that you were seeing Peter later,” she admitted. “Sorry, I should’ve realized.”

“That Moz is a crazy person? Maybe,” Neal said, peeved even though it really wasn’t Sara’s fault that Moz had a - completely platonic - jealous streak a mile wide. “It’s okay,” he said, when she looked even guiltier. “I’ve had worse. I’ll be good as new once I get some food into me.”

“Okay,” she said, and stood to give him a hug and a very rare kiss on the cheek. “Have a good night, you two.”

Neal was glad he’d asked Peter to pick him up. He was able to slouch in the front seat while Peter negotiated rush hour traffic in downtown Buffalo toward June’s house. “Thai food okay?” Peter asked while they were sitting at a red light. 

Neal roused enough to wave his hand. “Yeah. No rice or coconut milk, but if they have something with veggies and chicken or fish . . . or tom yum soup, that would be good, too.”

“You got it,” Peter said, and placed the order for delivery through his fancy built-in car phone. 

Climbing the stairs to his apartment left him worn out, legs shaking. Neal more or less stumbled through the door to his apartment, Peter’s hand at his back, and flopped down onto the sofa. “I’m gonna kill Moz,” he muttered, closing his eyes. He’d had such plans for the evening, and right then all he wanted to do was take a hot bath and go to bed.

Peter sighed. “Is he trying to protect you or just get between us?”

“Little of column A, little of column B,” Neal said. He opened his eyes and realized that Peter was standing in front of his paintings. “Oh, uh, don’t, it’s just a hobby.”

“They’re great,” Peter said. “I mean, what I know about art could fit on a postage stamp, but I like them.”

“Thanks,” Neal said. “My mom had me in art classes before I was even skating. But for some reason skating is the one that really took.”

Peter turned and looked at him. “You’re amazing.”

“What are you talking about?” Neal said, because there was something in Peter’s tone that implied, _And why are you interested in me?_ “You’re one of the best hockey players in the world, aren’t you?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m all right. Mostly I’ve been lucky enough to play on really good teams.”

Neal propped himself up on one elbow, the better to see Peter. “You really think that’s just luck, Peter? Because I think that’s leadership.”

“Maybe,” Peter said, sounding dubious. 

Neal shook his head. “There’s no ‘maybe’ about it. You’re a math guy, aren’t you? If every team you’ve been on has been good, then you have to start thinking about the common denominator. And that’s you.” 

Peter smiled. “Maybe,” he said again, less dubiously this time.

Neal shook his head again, smiling fondly. “I’ll get you to admit it yet.” He sat up, wincing a little at the pull of sore muscles. “But maybe not tonight.” 

Peter caught his eye, then came and sat beside him. “Can I, um -”

“What?” Neal asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Rub your back,” Peter said, sounding remarkably awkward. “You look sore, and I’m pretty good at it.”

Neal had to smile. “Why yes, Peter Burke, I will generously allow you to rub my back.” And then, because he could never resist pushing things just a little bit further, he pulled his shirt off over his head. He made sure Peter got a look at his washboard stomach - which did not just appear overnight, thank you - and then laid down face down on his sofa. “This all right?” he mumbled into the couch cushions. 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Peter said, sounding less startled than Neal had expected. He didn’t straddle Neal’s hips, much to Neal’s disappointment, but stayed perched on the edge of the sofa. His hands, when he touched him, were warm, and his touch wasn’t tentative. It was pretty professional at first, and Neal couldn’t help but wonder who else he had done this for - teammates, maybe? But then he hit on a particularly sore spot and Neal moaned. Peter’s hands faltered, just slightly, and after that he was a hell of a lot less professional, not just working out the knots a difficult practice had tied in Neal’s back and finding the place near the base of his spine that had bothered him ever since his injury a couple years ago, but also sliding his fingers into Neal’s hair to rub tiny circles on his scalp and stroke his neck until he almost started purring.

By the time their food arrived, Neal was resisting the urge to rock his hips into the couch. He let Peter go and answer the door, rolling onto his side to watch as Peter took the bags of food back to his table. Peter found his plates and bowls easily - one of the few advantages of a lack of storage space - and dished up some of the chicken and vegetables for Neal. He brought over his own food on a plate. He had a heaping pile of brown rice, Neal saw with some envy. 

“Come on, you have to sit up,” Peter said, nudging him with his knee. 

“I think you broke me,” Neal mumbled, closing his eyes. 

“In a good way, I hope.” 

“In the best way,” Neal replied, eyeing Peter through his lashes. Peter, if he wasn’t mistaken, was having an awfully hard time not staring at his abs.

Peter nudged him again. “You said yourself that you needed some food.”

“True,” Neal said, and sat up. He accepted his bowl from Peter and speared a piece of chicken. One bite in, he realized he was starving, and had to force himself not to inhale the rest of his food. 

He waited until they’d both finished eating, and Peter had taken their plates back over to the kitchenette. Peter came back and sat down, looking at him, and Neal took his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I’d have waited however long you needed, but I’m glad not to have to.”

“Me too,” Peter said, and kissed him. 

Even if Peter hadn’t told him that it had been a long time for him, Neal would have been able to tell; not because Peter was a bad kisser, but because so far he’d let Neal take the lead in almost everything. He’d seemed unsure of himself in a way that Neal suspected was not at all typical for him. But he was a lot less tentative now, a lot more willing to take the lead, and Neal was happy to let him have it. He pressed Neal back on the sofa and kissed him until his head spun.

Their first time might have happened right then and there, except that Neal suddenly thought of something and let out a very unsexy giggle. Peter backed off, looking vaguely alarmed. “No, sorry,” Neal said, waving a hand to try and indicate that he hadn’t been laughing at _him_. But then he didn’t help his cause by laughing again. “It’s just, the phrase ‘cleared for contact’ suddenly has a whole new meaning, doesn’t it?”

Peter’s eyes widened, and then he laughed. “I guess it does.” He looked down at Neal and shook his head, cupping his face in his hand, brushing his arch over his cheekbone and stroked the short hair at the nape of Neal’s neck. Neal shivered and felt the smile fade from his face. 

“I’d given up,” Peter said in a low voice. “I’d given up on ever meeting someone like you.”

Neal smiled. “But you did. And as much as I appreciate the sentiment, now that you’ve got me, I think you should think more about what you’re going to do with me.” He gave a long, slow roll of his hips against Peter’s, and felt Peter shudder. Peter stood, hauled Neal to his feet, and pulled him flush against him. He kissed him again and began walking him backward toward the bed. Neal, who was nothing if not an excellent multitasker, started unbuttoning Peter’s shirt. He wore an undershirt beneath, but that was easily dealt with, and by the time they tumbled onto the bed, they were both naked from the waist up. Neal pushed Peter over onto his back and straddled his waist, smoothing his hand over the warm, smooth skin of Peter’s chest. 

“What do you want?” Neal asked, thrusting almost lazily against Peter’s hip bone. 

“Everything,” Peter said. He looked a little dazed, and he kept reaching to touch whatever part of Neal he could reach, light touches on his chest and stomach. 

Neal smiled. “Okay, then what do you want first?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t care, I just - I just want _you_.” He reached up and pulled Neal down to kiss him, rolling them both over so that he was on top. Neal undid the button-down fly on Peter’s jeans and pushed them off his hips. They paused for Peter to get rid of them, and then it was Neal’s turn. His jeans were tighter and took a little more effort, but finally getting naked with Peter Burke was well worth the wait. 

Neal had had plans for this moment, but Peter derailed them all when he pushed him to lie back, kissed him, and slid down his chest. “This okay?” he asked, looking up to meet Neal’s eyes. 

“Um, yeah,” Neal said, meaning, _Are you kidding?_ He grabbed a pillow to prop himself up with, because he wanted to watch. Peter lowered his head and planted a kiss in the hollow of each of Neal’s hipbones, causing him to shiver, and then on the inside of Neal’s thigh, inches away from where Neal actually wanted him to be. “Tease,” Neal accused, breathlessly. Peter chuckled, unrepentant, and bracketed Neal’s hips with his hands, thumbs stroking lightly. Peter looked up and caught Neal’s eye again, then lowered his lashes and took his cock in his mouth. 

Neal had slept with guys who’d obviously had a lot of experience sucking cock, and Peter Burke wasn’t one of them. But what he lacked for in skill, he made up for in enthusiasm and an uncanny ability to know exactly what Neal wanted. Neal tried to keep his eyes open, because the sight of Peter, cradled between his thighs, cheeks hollowed, was just about the hottest thing he’d ever seen. But eventually it all became too much and he had to close his eyes, tilting his head back to rest against the headboard. He threaded his fingers into Peter’s hair and tried not to pull, even when he got close, but somehow Peter could tell anyway. Neal thought about warning him, thought about pulling away, but Peter redoubled his efforts and every thought Neal had about stopping flew right out of his head. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, _Peter_ ,” he groaned, and came. 

For a few minutes, Neal couldn’t do anything except lie back and breathe. Peter lay patiently with his head on Neal’s hip, and Neal moved his fingers slowly through his hair. When he felt like he could move again, he tugged lightly and said, “C’mere.”

Peter crawled up toward the head of the bed and kissed him, then kissed the side of his neck and the hollow of his throat. Neal’s whole body felt sensitive in the wake of his orgasm, and he shivered. But it felt like Peter was doing an awful lot of work. Neal rolled them over so that Peter was beneath him, and reached down to stroke his cock, lighter and slower than Neal knew he wanted. Peter gasped and squirmed, pushing up into Neal’s hand. “Your turn,” he said, softly. Neal thought about returning Peter’s favor, but Peter kissed him and kept kissing him, and Neal selfishly didn’t want to put a stop to it. 

He did break things off long enough to dig some lube out of his bedside drawer. He warmed it between his hands, not wanting to shock Peter, and then reached down to stroke him. Peter went very still at the slick slide of Neal’s hand on his cock, almost holding his breath. Then he let it out all at once and kissed Neal again, muffling his moans against Neal’s mouth. 

It was not at all surprising to Neal that Peter was very quiet. He gasped and broke the kiss off to bury his face in Neal’s neck, and that was all the warning Neal had before he came, shaking apart in Neal’s arms. Neal held onto him and kept working him all the way through, until he lay limp and pliant against him. Someday, Neal thought, maybe even someday soon, he would get Peter Burke to make some serious noise.

Neal fell asleep after they cleaned up, worn out by two hard practices and the excellent, if not particularly athletic, sex. He woke disoriented some time later, and it was only when he realized that the weight across his waist was Peter’s Burke’s arm that he remembered. He relaxed, sinking back into the warmth of Peter’s chest. 

“Hey,” Peter said, breath whispering against the back of Neal’s neck. “You awake?”

“Yeah,” Neal said, rolling over to face him. “Sorry for falling asleep on you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter said, propping himself up on one hand. “You were exhausted.”

“Mmm,” Neal said, and reached up to drag Peter down for a kiss. “You wore me out.” Peter didn’t respond; Neal pulled back an inch or two, just enough to get a good look at Peter, and realized he looked a little uncertain. “Hey. That was great.”

Peter smiled. “For me, too.”

“And that was only our first time,” Neal said, stretching and giving Peter a lazy smile. “It’ll just get better from here.” He craned his head around to catch a glimpse of the bedside clock. It was a little after eight; normally he started getting tired about now, especially if he’d had two practices that day, but he’d had a nap and now he actually felt energized. “Is there any food left?” he asked, throwing back the covers.

“Yeah, lots.”

“You want some?” Neal padded over to the table and dished himself up some of his chicken and veggies over some of Peter’s brown rice. It had been, after all, an unusually strenuous day, both on and off the ice. 

“Sure,” Peter said. 

Neal put some food on a plate for him and brought it back to the bed. They ate sitting up against the headboard. It tasted good, even better than it had earlier, and for a few minutes Neal didn’t think about much except how good he felt in his body - mildly sore from practice, but no longer exhausted, and relaxed and happy from the post-sex endorphins. 

Eventually, though, he realized that Peter was being much too quiet. “Everything okay?” he asked, once he’d swallowed his last bite of chicken. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, then shook his head. “Sorry. I’m just -”

“Brooding?” Neal suggested. “Come on, Peter. Tell me what’s wrong, or I’m going to start thinking you didn’t enjoy yourself.”

“I did,” Peter said, quickly. “God, Neal, I did. But I -” He stopped, swallowed. “I don’t want to scare you off.”

“You can’t,” Neal said. “No, seriously, Peter,” he added, when Peter looked dubious. “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m thinking it, too.”

Peter stared straight ahead. “I think you’re someone I could fall in love with,” he said at last, in the tone of someone making a confession. “It’s only been a few weeks, but I already feel that way. And part of me is thrilled, because I never thought it’d happen to me. And part of me is terrified, because I never thought it’d happen to me, and so I never thought about what I’d do if it did.”

Neal decided they were sitting way too far apart for this conversation. He took Peter’s plate and his own and set them both on the floor. Then he tucked himself closer to Peter, sliding his arm around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. He held him, without speaking, until Peter relaxed, slowly and by degrees, into Neal’s side. 

“You’re someone who always has a plan, aren’t you, Peter Burke?” he murmured. Peter sighed and nodded. “What were you going to do if hockey didn’t work out?”

“Become an FBI agent,” Peter said promptly. “I still might, if I’m not too old when I retire.”

Neal smiled. “Well, I’m not a planner. I never have been. People like me need people like you to keep us on track. I don’t know what I’d have done without Moz and Sara these last few years, but I definitely wouldn’t be where I am. But people like you need people like me, too. You need us to tell you when you’re in danger of borrowing trouble and ruining a beautiful moment.”

Peter chucked ruefully. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Neal said. “Just be happy. I don’t know what’s going to happen and neither do you. But I do know that right now, this? This is good. And next week, you and I are both going to the Olympics. How many people can say that?”

Peter grinned. “Not too damn many.”

“And I’ve never been,” Neal said, “so you’ll have to tell me if it’s true, but is Olympic Village really just one big orgy?”

Peter laughed. “Basically. I think I was the only member of the team who didn’t get laid at least three or four times in 2010.”

“Well,” Neal said with a grin, “that’s not a distinction you’ll have this time.”

“ _Roommates_ ,” Peter reminded him.

“ _No press,_ ” Neal replied. “What happens in Olympic Village stays there, or so I hear.”

Peter shook his head. “All right, you win.”

“Damn right I do,” Neal said, grinning. Peter smiled back, looking genuinely happy, and Neal leaned in for a kiss. The kiss went on, until finally Neal rolled onto his back, pulling Peter down on top of him. 

He fell asleep for real after round two and woke up only when his alarm went off at four. Peter, to his surprise, was already up and moving around. “I borrowed your shower,” Peter said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” Neal said, pushing himself up on his elbow. “Did you sleep?”

“I did,” Peter said, “but then I woke up at three and was wide awake. Anyway, I need to get going.”

“Are you coming to the rink?” Neal asked. 

Peter shook his head, and came and sat down on the bed. He was already dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the day before - he never had made it back down to his car for that overnight bag, Neal realized. “I need to go home and pack, and then I have a meeting this morning with El to discuss talking points. My flight’s this afternoon, and she has me taping an interview with one of the sports shows this evening.”

“Oh,” Neal said, and knew he didn’t hide his disappointment. He’d thought they’d have one more morning practice together. “You’re not panicking, then?”

“No,” Peter said, reaching for his hand. “I’m not. Not yet, anyway.”

“Good,” Neal said. “Then I guess I’ll see you in Salzburg.”

Peter leaned in for a kiss, and even though they both had morning breath, Neal wasn’t about to pass this opportunity up. Peter’s stubble scraped a little against his cheek, a sensation Neal had always had a weakness for. But Peter pulled away before long. “See you in Salzburg,” he said, like a promise. He squeezed Neal’s hand, and was gone. 

The rink was big and cold and empty at five-thirty without Peter there at the other end. Neal had beat both Sara and Moz there, and so for the first few minutes it was just him and the ice. He set up his iPod on the sound system and moved through his warm-up. He’d just landed his first triple axel of the morning when he noticed Sara watching him from the sidelines. 

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “You’re looking energetic this morning. I didn’t expect that after yesterday. You’re not sore?”

“A little here and there,” Neal said with a shrug. “But in a good way.”

One perfect eyebrow arched. “I see. And how’s Peter?”

Neal didn’t bother to hide his grin. “He’s good. He’s on his way to Manhattan to do some press before he goes to Salzburg. The next time I see him will be at the _Olympics_.” He grinned even harder, until he felt like his face would split in two. 

Sara laughed at him. “So, life is good?”

“Life is great.”

“And the quad?” she asked. “Have you tried it yet?”

“Not yet,” Neal admitted, but for once the idea of it didn’t fill him with trepidation. It was probably just the endorphins speaking, but right at that moment, anything felt possible. He was falling in love, and he and Peter would both be at Salzburg in just a few days’ time. 

“Just you watch,” Neal said, and pushed away from the wall. “This is going to be great.”

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But wait!" you might be thinking. "What about the Olympics?" Don't worry, I have about 35k of sequel that's on its way. I won't give an exact time table for it, but I'm thinking probably some time this summer.


End file.
